THE  WRITINGS  OF 
THOMAS    BAILEY  ALDRICH 

IN   EIGHT  VOLUMES 
VOLUME 

I 


^  J  V 


«.  . 


THE   POEMS 


OF 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOLUME    I 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

£lK  tficerstbe  press,  Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,  1876,  1883,  1886, 1889,  1890,  1893, 

1894,  1896,  1897,  190l>  19°4>  BY  THOMAS  BAILEY 
ALDKICH  ;  1873,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND 
CO.;  1907,  BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  CO. 
AiL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


College 
Library 

PS 

(oao 

T07 
V.I 

PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 


To  the  poems  collected  by  Mr.  Aldrich  for  the 
Riverside  Edition  of  his  works  the  publishers 
have  now  added  "Judith  of  Bethulia"  and 
"Longfellow."  The  former  is  in  part  a  drama 
tization  of  the  author's  narrative  poem  "  Judith 
and  Holof ernes,"  but  though  it  contains  lines 
and  passages  from  the  story,  the  drama  deals 
with  characters,  incidents,  and  situations  not 
to  be  found  in  the  poem  or  in  the  apocryphal 
episode  upon  which  both  pieces  were  based, 
and  was  regarded  by  its  author  as  essentially  a 
distinct  work.  The  play  was  produced  at  the 
Tremont  Theatre,  Boston,  October  13,  1904, 
and  was  published  in  book  form  the  next  month, 
but  certain  changes  were  made  in  the  two 
scenes  constituting  Act  III  before  the  second 
edition  was  printed  in  1905.  The  poem  entitled 
"  Longfellow  "  was  written  for  the  Longfellow 
centennial  celebration,  and  was  read  at  Sanders 
Theatre,  Harvard  University,  February  27, 
1907.  It  was  also  read  at  the  funeral  of  its 
author  less  than  a  month  later. 


972533 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH xii 

FLOWER   AND   THORN i 

BABY    BELL   AND   OTHER   POEMS 

BABY   BELL 3 

PISCATAQUA   RIVER 7 

PAMPINA 9 

INVOCATION  TO   SLEEP 12 

THE   FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS 14 

AN   OLD   CASTLE l6 

LOST  AT  SEA       ...               ....  19 

THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE 21 

DIRGE 23 

ON   LYNN   TERRACE 25 

SEADRIFT 27 

THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.    MARK   AT   MIDNIGHT      ..           .  29 

THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS 30 

BAYARD  TAYLOR        34 

INTERLUDES 

HESPERIDES 35 

BEFORE  THE   RAIN 36 

AFTER   THE   RAIN            ...                       ...  36 

A  SNOWFLAKE 37 

FROST-WORK 37 

THE  ONE  WHITE   ROSE 38 

LANDSCAPE 38 

NOCTURNE 39 

APPRECIATION 40 


x  CONTENTS 

PALABRAS  CARINOSAS 41 

APPARITIONS 42 

UNSUNG 42 

AN   UNTIMELY  THOUGHT 43 

ONE  WOMAN 44 

REALISM 45 

DISCIPLINE 45 

DESTINY 46 

NAMELESS   PAIN 47 

HEREDITY 47 

IDENTITY 48 

LYRICS  AND   EPICS 49 

A  WINTER   PIECE 49 

KRISS   KRINGLE 50 

RENCONTRE 51 

LOVE'S  CALENDAR 51 

LOST  ART 52 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

PROEM 53 

AN   ARAB   WELCOME 54 

A  TURKISH   LEGEND 54 

THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS      ....  55 

THE  UNFORGIVEN 56 

DRESSING  THE  BRIDE 58 

TWO  SONGS   FROM  THE   PERSIAN          ....  58 

TIGER-LILIES 60 

THE  SULTANA 6l 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 62 

LATAKIA 63 

WHEN   THE  SULTAN   GOES   TO   ISPAHAN  .          .  65 

A  PRELUDE 67 

TO   HAFIZ 68 

AT  NIJNII-NOVGOROD 69 

THE  LAMENT  OF  EL  MOULOK  ....  70 

NOURMADEE 72 


CONTENTS  xi 

FRIAR  JEROME'S    BEAUTIFUL   BOOK  ETC. 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK        ...  81 

MIANTOWONA 9O 

THE  GUERDON 98 

TITA'S  TEARS 101 

A   BALLAD 103 

THE   LEGEND  OF   ARA-CCELI IO; 

BAGATELLE 

CORYDON  —  A   PASTORAL 123 

ON   AN    INTAGLIO   HEAD   OF   MINERVA          .  .  .126 

THE   MENU 128 

COMEDY 129 

IN   AN   ATELIER 130 

AT  A    READING 133 

AMONTILLADO 135 

CARPE   DIEM 137 

DANS   LA   BOHEME 138 

THE   LUNCH 141 

IMP   OF   DREAMS          .           .           .           .    '      .          .          .  141 

AN    ELECTIVE   COURSE 142 

PEPITA 145 

L'EAU   DORMANTE  .  .  .     '      .          .          .  .148 

ECHO   SONG          ........  149 

THALIA 150 

PALINODE 153 

MERCEDES 155 

FOOTNOTES  — A  BOOK  OF  QUATRAINS     .       .       .  195 

JUDITH   AND   HOLOFERNES 

BOOK       I.    JUDITH   IN   THE  TOWER     ....  205 

BOOK     II.    THE  CAMP   OF   ASSHUR   ....  217 

BOOK  III.    THE  FLIGHT 230 

The  frontispiece  is  from  a  recent  photograph  of  Mr.  Aldrich  taken 
by  G.  C.  Cox,  of  New  York. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  was  born  November 
u,  1836,  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  a  city  which,  under 
the  name  of  "  Rivermouth,"  he  has  made  familiar 
to  thousands  who  have  never  seen  the  old  seaport. 
It  was  in  "  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy  "  that  he  first, 
with  many  vivid  and  loving  touches,  depicted  its 
elm-shaded  streets,  spacious,  old-fashioned  dwell 
ings,  decaying  warehouses,  and  crumbling  wharves, 
haunted  by  a  faint  spicy  odor,  —  the  ghost  of  the 
dead  West  India  trade.  In  this  delightful  history, 
which  we  have  the  best  authority  for  regarding  as 
substantially  autobiographical,  is  given  as  spirited 
and  living  a  picture  of  its  author's  boyhood  as  could 
be  desired.  Taken  in  infancy  to  Louisiana,  where 
his  father  had  business  interests,  he  returned  to 
his  grandfather's  house  in  Portsmouth  to  pass  his 
school  days,  and  there,  in  1852,  when  he  was  pre 
paring  to  enter  Harvard  College,  he  received  the 
news  of  his  father's  death  in  New  Orleans.  This 
loss  changed  his  purpose,  and  he  accepted  a  posi 
tion  in  the  banking-house  of  an  uncle  in  New  York. 

But  already  the  boy's  aspirations  were  literary 
rather  than  commercial,  and  his  earliest  verses, 


xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

after  the  manner  of  their  kind,  had  appeared  in  the 
Poets'  Corner  of  a  local  newspaper.  Even  during 
the  three  years  he  remained  in  his  uncle's  office  he 
became  known  as  a  not  infrequent  contributor  to 
journals  and  magazines,  and  in  1855  he  definitely 
connected  himself  with  the  "  New  York  Evening 
Mirror."  From  1856  to  1859  he  was  assistant  ed 
itor  of  the  "  Home  Journal,"  then  under  the  charge 
of  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  who  gave  to  the  work  of  his 
youthful  associate  a  kindly  appreciation  and  en 
couragement  that  the  latter  always  held  in  grateful 
remembrance.  In  the  early  part  of  the  Civil  War 
he  was  for  a  time  attached  to  Blenker's  Division  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac  as  a  newspaper  corre 
spondent. 

He  brought  out  several  volumes  of  verse  during 
these  years,  the  earliest,  "  The  Ballad  of  Baby  Bell, 
and  Other  Poems,"  having  been  issued  when  its 
author  was  but  twenty.  Always  his  own  severest 
critic,  he  was  peculiarly  merciless  in  dealing  with 
his  juvenile  poems  ;  and  in  an  examination  of  this 
little  book  and  its  immediate  successors  but  few 
verses  will  be  found  that  have  reappeared  in  later 
collections. 

In  1865  Mr.  Aldrich  married,  and  removed  to 
Boston  to  take  charge  of  "  Every  Saturday,"  a  new 
weekly  established  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  which 
he  remained  editor  until  1874.  In  the  year  first 
named  an  edition  of  his  poems  was  brought  out  by 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xv 

the  same  publishers,  in  one  of  their  little  blue  and 
gold  volumes,  a  guise  in  which  for  a  season  nearly 
all  American  poets  of  repute  were  presented  to  the 
public,  and  it  was  no  mean  distinction  for  so  young 
an  author  to  appear  thus  in  company  with  the  best 
writers  of  the  best  period  of  American  literature. 
Several  of  the  poems  in  this  volume,  including 
"  Friar  Jerome's  Beautiful  Book,"  were  first  printed 
in  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  to  which  Mr.  Aldrich 
had  been  a  contributor  since  1860. 

In  1869  "  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy  "  appeared  as 
a  serial  in  "  Our  Young  Folks,"  a  juvenile  maga 
zine  published  by  Ticknor  &  Fields.  To  the  vital 
ity  and  truthfulness  of  this  portrait  of  a  healthy, 
happy,  unspoiled  boy,  enthusiastic  readers,  old  as 
well  as  young,  have  always  been  eager  to  testify. 
The  genuine  naturalness  of  the  story,  its  pleasant 
humor,  and  its  fine  literary  quality  give  it  a  peren 
nial  freshness,  and  have  made  it  popular  in  many 
lands  remote  from  its  native  New  England. 

Up  to  this  time  Mr.  Aldrich  may  be  said  to  have 
been  known  only  as  a  poet,  but  during  the  suc 
ceeding  ten  years  he  was  to  win  wide  recognition 
as  a  story-writer  and  novelist.  It  was  then  that 
much  began  to  be  said  and  written  about  the  excel 
lence  of  the  American  short  story,  praises  which 
must  have  been  in  no  small  part  inspired  by  the 
publication  of  such  little  masterpieces  as  "  Miss 
Mehetabel's  Son,"  "  A  Rivermouth  Romance,"  and 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

"  Marjorie  Daw,"  —  the  last  in  especial,  by  its  po 
tent  if  elusive  charm,  gaining  an  instant  popularity, 
exceptional  in  its  extent  and,  it  may  be  added,  in  its 
enduring  quality.  "  Marjorie  Daw  "  gave  name  to 
a  collection  of  stories  and  sketches  published  in 
1873  ;  and  in  the  same  year  appeared  a  new  volume 
of  verse,  "  Cloth  of  Gold,"  followed  three  years 
later  by  "Flower  and  Thorn."  "Prudence  Pal 
frey,"  its  author's  first  novel,  was  issued  in  1874. 
The  others  are  "  The  Queen  of  Sheba  "  (1877)  and 
"  The  Still  water  Tragedy  "  (1880).  A  later  volume 
of  short  stories,  "  Two  Bites  at  a  Cherry,  and  Other 
Tales,"  was  brought  out  in  1893,  and  another,  "  A 
Sea  Turn,  and  Other  Matters,"  appeared  in  1902. 
In  these  works,  whether  novel,  story,  or  sketch,  we 
find  that  easy  readableness  which  comes  only  from 
infinite  pains  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  a  lucid 
style,  free  alike  from  mannerisms  and  affectations 
and  with  a  quite  individual  charm,  naturalness  of 
movement,  and,  above  all,  a  quiet  but  pervasive 
and  spontaneous  humor,  with  touches  of  simple 
and  unforced  pathos. 

In  1881,  as  successor  to  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells,  Mr. 
Aldrich  became  editor  of  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly," 
in  which  so  much  of  his  best  work  had  first  ap 
peared,  and  he  held  this  chair  until  1890.  In  the 
early  years  of  his  Boston  residence  he  had  estab 
lished  a  country  home  at  Ponkapog,  a  village  whose 
rural  charms  are  pleasantly  touched  upon  in  "  Our 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xvii 

New  Neighbors."  For  two  years,  during  an  ab 
sence  of  Mr.  Lowell,  he  had  been  the  tenant  of 
Elmwood.  In  1875  ^e  ^a<^  ma(ie  a  somewhat 
extensive  European  tour,  destined  to  be  the  first 
of  many  similar  wanderings  and  sojourns.  It  was 
from  the  earlier  vivid  impressions  of  certain  places, 
which  use  had  not  yet  made  over-familiar,  that  the 
agreeable  travel-sketches  collected  in  "  From  Pon- 
kapog  to  Pesth  "  (1883)  were  written.  Later  jour 
neys  were  of  still  larger  scope,  including  two  visits 
to  Russia,  of  which  traces  may  be  found  in  his 
poems,  Freedom  from  his  editorial  charge  brought 
larger  opportunities  for  travel,  and  in  1894-95  he 
made  a  journey  round  the  world. 

Always  loyal  to  his  birthplace,  in  "  An  Old  Town 
by  the  Sea"  (1893)  he  gives  a  picturesque  descrip 
tion  of  the  Portsmouth  of  history  and  tradition,  as 
well  as  his  own  reminiscences  of  such  survivals  of  its 
old  life  as  still  remained  in  his  boyhood.  The  latest 
volumes  of  poems  are  "  Mercedes "  and  "  Later 
Lyrics"  (1883),  "Mercedes"  being  a  play  in  two 
acts,  genuinely  dramatic  in  form  and  spirit,  which, 
with  Miss  Julia  Arthur  in  the  title  role,  was  given 
at  Palmer's  Theatre,  New  York,  in  the  season  of 
1895  >  "  Wyndham  Towers  "  (1889),  an  Elizabethan 
story  in  verse,  full  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  time, 
and  containing  passages  of  rare  beauty,  one  of 
which,  the  song,  "  Sweetheart,  Sigh  no  More,"  is  as 
charming  a  reproduction  of  the  lyric  of  England's 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

lyric  age  as  these  latter  days  are  likely  to  give 
us;  "The  Sisters'  Tragedy"  (1890);  "Unguarded 
Gates"  (1895);  "Judith  and  Holofernes"  (1896); 
and  "  Judith  of  Bethulia,"  a  tragedy  in  four  acts 
(1904).  The  last,  Mr.  Aldrich's  second  piece  of 
stage-work,  was  produced  at  the  Tremont  Theatre, 
Boston,  by  Miss  Nance  O'Neil  in  1904,  and  sub 
sequently  performed  in  our  principal  cities.  His 
last  prose  volume  was  "  Ponkapog  Papers,"  a  col 
lection  of  short  essays  and  sketches  published  in 
1903. 

The  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  was  conferred 
upon  Mr.  Aldrich  by  Yale  College  (1881)  and  by 
Harvard  University  (1896),  and  that  of  Doctor  of 
Letters  by  Yale  (1901)  and  by  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania  (1905). 

We  may  confidently  predict  that  it  is  as  a  poet, 
and  especially  as  a  lyric  poet,  that  Mr.  Aldrich 
will  be  longest  remembered.  Some  of  his  briefer 
poems,  in  which  the  beauty  of  the  thought  is 
equaled  by  the  exquisite  form  of  the  verse  which 
gives  it  life,  lines  which  once  read  linger  always  in 
the  memory,  must  be  among  the  things  which  re 
main.  Thoroughly  of  New  England  as  he  was,  he 
had  the  French  feeling  for  literary  form,  the  French 
grace  and  lightness  of  touch,  qualities  which  have 
helped  to  make  his  vers  de  societi  easily  the  best  in 
our  literature.  Having  the  true  artist's  reverence 
for  his  craft,  he  had  little  tolerance  for  careless,  ill- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xix 

considered  work,  least  of  all  for  any  of  his  own 
work  that  he  found  wanting,  and  he  never  allowed 
popular  favor  to  save  such  delinquents  from  sup 
pression. 

Mr.  Aldrich  died  at  his  home  on  Mt.  Vernon 
Street,  Boston,  March  19,  1907.  The  fine  poem 
on  Longfellow,  which  he  had  just  written  for  the 
centenary  of  the  poet's  birth,  was,  very  appropri 
ately,  read  at  his  own  funeral. 


FLOWER  AND   THORN 

TO   L.    A. 


AT  Shiraz,  in  a  sultan's  garden,  stood 
A  tree  whereon  a  curious  apple  grew, 
One  side  like  honey,  and  one  side  like  rue. 

Thus  sweet  and  bitter  is  the  life  of  man, 
The  sultan  said,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

Herewith  together  you  have  flower  and  thorn, 
Both  rose  and  brier,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

ii 

Take  them  and  keep  them, 
Silvery  thorn  and  flower, 
Plucked  just  at  random 
In  the  rosy  weather  — 
Snowdrops  and  pansies, 
Sprigs  of  wayside  heather, 


FLOWER  AND   THORN 

And  five-leafed  wild-rose 
Dead  within  an  hour. 

Take  them  and  keep  them  : 
Who  can  tell  ?  some  day,  dear, 
(Though  they  be  withered, 
Flower  and  thorn  and  blossom,) 
Held  for  an  instant 
Up  against  thy  bosom, 
They  might  make  December 
Seem  to  thee  like  May,  dear! 


BABY  BELL  AND  OTHER 
POEMS 


BABY   BELL 


HAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 
Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers  —  those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers  : 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet. 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 
3 


BABY   BELL 
II 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May ; 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 
Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell ; 
And  on  the  porch  the  slender  vine 
Held  out  its  cups  of  fairy  wine. 
How  tenderly  the  twilights  fell ! 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Came  to  this  world  of  ours. 

in 

O  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 
What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  — 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 
So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born. 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 


BABY   BELL  5 

This  real  world  and  that  unseen  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn  ; 

And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 

(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 

When  Baby  came  from  Paradise,)  — 

For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 

We  said,  Dear  Christ ! — our  hearts  bowed  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 


IV 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  pink  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 

Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime ; 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  folded  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling,  range  on  range 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Baby  Bell. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 

Her  angel-nature  ripened  too : 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .  .  . 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 

We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame. 


BABY   BELL 


God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key ; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things 
Who  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

VI 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees, 
We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell  — 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 
We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah !  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell ! 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER 
VII 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 
The  messenger  from  unseen  lands : 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow  — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours. 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER 

THOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Thou  singest,  and  the  sunlight  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 
So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 
An  hour  upon  thy  breast ! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER 

Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 

And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores  ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 
And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 
And  burn  the  tapering  spires ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 
And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River !  flowing  to  the  main 
Through  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  j 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 
To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 
And  crags  where  I  am  known  I 


PAMPINA 

PAMPINA 

LYING  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 

Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 

Dripping  reefs  and  salty  caves, 

Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves, 

Faded  ;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 

Myself  an  old-time  Florentine, 

In  the  heart  of  that  fair  land. 

And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 

Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place, 

I  met  Pampina  face  to  face  — 

A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 

Her  smile  was  to  know  Italy. 

Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 

Upon  her  Grecian  forehead  set, 

Where  one  gem  glistened  sunnily 

Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea. 

I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 

The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 

And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand 

The  olive  of  her  native  land. 

And,  knowing  how  in  other  times 
Her  lips  were  rich  with  Tuscan  rhymes 
Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 


10  PAMPINA 

My  mantle  by  an  almond-tree, 
And  "Here,  beneath  the  rose,"  I  said, 
"  I  '11  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody." 
I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 
In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 
When  Heaven,  for  some  divine  offence, 
Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence; 
And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade 
The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 
With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 
To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need, 
To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 
With  glint  of  plume  and  silver  brede. 
And  while  she  whispers  in  my  ear, 
The  pleasant  Arno  murmurs  near, 
The  timid,  slim  chameleons  run 
Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun ; 
The  breezes  blur  the  fountain's  glass, 
And  wake  aeolian  melodies, 
And  scatter  from  the  scented  trees 
The  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass. 

The  tale  ?     I  have  forgot  the  tale  — 
A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 
A  rose  tree,  and  a  nightingale 
That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn ; 
A  jar  of  rubies  buried  deep, 
A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 
A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 
In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle-wall. 


PAMPINA  il 

Now  while  the  dark-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance  — 
Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance  — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  seaside  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book, 
Half  vext  that  she  should  read,  and  weep 
For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep. 
And  scorning  one  so  tame  and  cold, 
She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 
Her  wind-swept  drapery,  fold  in  fold, 
Imprisoned  by  a  snowy  hand ; 
And  on  a  bowlder,  half  in  sand, 
She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 
Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 
A  siren  lithe  and  debonair, 
With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 
And  strings  of  lucent  amber  beads 
Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 
And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 
The  something  in  us  never  sleeps, 
But  laughs,  or  sings,  or  moans,  or  weeps, 
She  turned  —  and  on  her  breast  and  brow 
I  saw  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 
From  touches  of  New  England  sun  ; 
I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand 
The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land. 


12  INVOCATION   TO   SLEEP 

She  turned  —  and,  lo !  within  her  eyes 
There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies. 

Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 
Of  reason ;  oft  we  cannot  tell 
If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell : 
But  to  my  thought  it  seems  not  strange 
That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 
With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 
I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy. 


INVOCATION  TO   SLEEP 


THERE  is  a  rest  for  all  things.     On  still  nights 
There  is  a  folding  of  a  world  of  wings  — 

The  bees  in  unknown  woods, 
The  painted  dragonflies,  and  downy  broods 

In  dizzy  poplar  heights  — 
Rest  for  innumerable  nameless  things, 
Rest  for  the  creatures  underneath  the  sea, 
And  in  the  earth,  and  in  the  starry  air. 
It  comes  to  heavier  sorrow  than  I  bear, 
To  pain,  and  want,  and  crime,  and  dark  despair 

And  yet  comes  not  to  me ! 


INVOCATION   TO   SLEEP  13 

II 

One  that  has  fared  a  long  and  toilsome  way 
And  sinks  beneath  the  burden  of  the  day, 

O  delicate  Sleep, 

Brings  thee  a  soul  that  he  would  have  thee  keep 
A  captive  in  thy  shadowy  domain 
With  Puck  and  Ariel  and  the  happy  train 
That  people  dreamland.     Give  unto  his  sight 
Immortal  shapes,  and  fetch  to  him  again 
His  Psyche  that  went  out  into  the  night ! 

in 

Thou  that  dost  hold  the  priceless  gift  of  rest, 
Strew  lotus  leaf  and  poppy  on  his  breast ; 

Reach  forth  thy  hand 
And  lead  him  to  thy  castle  in  the  land 

All  vainly  sought  — 
To  those  hushed  chambers  lead   him,  where  the 

thought 

Wanders  at  will  upon  enchanted  ground, 
And  never  human  footfall  makes  a  sound 

Along  the  corridors. 

The  bell  sleeps  in  the  belfry  —  from  its  tongue 
A  drowsy  murmur  floats  into  the  air 
Like  thistle-down.     There  is  no  bough  but  seems 
Weighted  with  slumber  —  slumber  everywhere  ! 


14        THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE    GODDESS 

Couched  on  her  leaf,  the  lily  sways  and  dips ; 
In  the  green  dusk  where  joyous  birds  have  sung 
Sits  Silence  with  her  finger  on  her  lips  ; 
Shy   woodland    folk   and   sprites   that   haunt   the 

streams 

Are  pillowed  now  in  grottoes  cool  and  deep ; 
But  I  in  chilling  twilight  stand  and  wait 
At  the  portcullis  of  thy  castle  gate, 
Longing  to  see  the  charmed  door  of  dreams 
Turn  on  its  noiseless  hinges,  delicate  Sleep ! 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  THE  GODDESS 

A  MAN  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Of  old,  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 
And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 

The  narrow,  mean  attic,  I  see  it  now  !  — 
Its  window  o'erlooking  the  city's  tiles, 
The  sunset's  fires,  and  the  clouds  of  snow, 
And  the  river  wandering  miles  and  miles. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   GODDESS         15 

Just  one  picture  hung  in  the  room, 
The  saddest  story  that  Art  can  tell  — 
Dante  and  Virgil  in  lurid  gloom 
Watching  the  Lovers  float  through  Hell. 

Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 
Pinched,  and  harassed  with  vain  desires ; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 

Midnight  filled  my  slumbers  with  song ; 
Music  haunted  my  dreams  by  day. 
Now  I  listen  and  wait  and  long, 
But  the  Delphian  airs  have  died  away. 

I  wonder  and  wonder  how  it  befell : 
Suddenly  I  had  friends  in  crowds ; 
I  bade  the  house-tops  a  long  farewell ; 
"  Good-by,"  I  cried,  "  to  the  stars  and  clouds ! 

"  But  thou,  rare  soul,  thou  hast  dwelt  with  me, 
Spirit  of  Poesy !  thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be, 
Goddess  !  for  ever  and  ever  mine." 

And  the  woman  I  loved  was  now  my  bride, 
And  the  house  I  wanted  was  my  own ; 
I  turned  to  the  Goddess  satisfied  — 
But  the  Goddess  had  somehow  flown. 


16  AN    OLD    CASTLE 

Flown,  and  I  fear  she  will  never  return  ; 
I  am  much  too  sleek  and  happy  for  her, 
Whose  lovers  must  hunger  and  waste  and  burn, 
Ere  the  beautiful  heathen  heart  will  stir. 

I  call  —  but  she  does  not  stoop  to  my  cry ; 
I  wait  —  but  she  lingers,  and  ah  !  so  long ! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  she  touched  my  lips  with  chrism  of  song. 

I  swear  I  will  get  me  a  garret  again, 
And  adore,  like  a  Parsee,  the  sunset's  fires, 
And  lure  the  Goddess,  by  vigil  and  pain, 
Up  with  the  sparrows  among  the  spires. 

For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 


AN   OLD   CASTLE 


THE  gray  arch  crumbles, 

And  totters  and  tumbles ; 

The  bat  has  built  in  the  banquet  hall 


AN    OLD    CASTLE  17 

In  the  donjon-keep 

Sly  mosses  creep  ; 

The  ivy  has  scaled  the  southern  wall. 

No  man-at-arms 

Sounds  quick  alarms 

A-top  of  the  cracked  martello  tower ; 

The  drawbridge-chain 

Is  broken  in  twain  — 

The  bridge  will  neither  rise  nor  lower. 

Not  any  manner 

Of  broidered  banner 

Flaunts  at  a  blazoned  herald's  call. 

Lilies  float 

In  the  stagnant  moat ; 

And  fair  they  are,  and  tall. 

ii 

Here,  in  the  old 

Forgotten  springs, 

Was  wassail  held  by  queens  and  kings ; 

Here  at  the  board 

Sat  clown  and  lord, 

Maiden  fair  and  lover  bold, 

Baron  fat  and  minstrel  lean, 

The  prince  with  his  stars, 

The  knight  with  his  scars, 

The  priest  in  his  gabardine. 


18  AN   OLD   CASTLE 

ill 

Where  is  she 

Of  the  fleur-de-lys, 

And  that  true  knight  who  wore  her  gages  ? 

Where  are  the  glances 

That  bred  wild  fancies 

In  curly  heads  of  my  lady's  pages  ? 

Where  are  those 

Who,  in  steel  or  hose, 

Held  revel  here,  and  made  them  gay  ? 

W7here  is  the  laughter 

That  shook  the  rafter  — 

Where  is  the  rafter,  by  the  way  ? 

Gone  is  the  roof, 

And  perched  aloof 

Is  an  owl,  like  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

(Perhaps  't  is  the  priest 

Come  back  to  feast  — 

He  had  ever  a  tooth  for  capon,  he  ! 

But  the  capon  's  cold, 

And  the  steward 's  old, 

And  the  butler 's  lost  the  larder-key !) 

The  doughty  lords 

Sleep  the  sleep  of  swords  ; 

Dead  are  the  dames  and  damozels  ; 

The  King  in  his  crown 

Hath  laid  him  down, 

And  the  Jester  with  his  bells. 


LOST   AT   SEA  19 

IV 

All  is  dead  here  : 

Poppies  are  red  here, 

Vines  in  my  lady's  chamber  grow  — 

If  't  was  her  chamber 

Where  they  clamber 

Up  from  the  poisonous  weeds  below. 

All  is  dead  here, 

Joy  is  fled  here  ; 

Let  us  hence.     'T  is  the  end  of  all  — 

The  gray  arch  crumbles, 

And  totters,  and  tumbles, 

And  Silence  sits  in  the  banquet  hall. 


LOST  AT   SEA 

THE  face  that  Carlo  Dolci  drew 
Looks  down  from  out  its  leafy  hood  — 
The  holly  berries,  gleaming  through 
The  pointed  leaves,  seem  drops  of  blood. 

Above  the  cornice,  round  the  hearth, 
Are  evergreens  and  spruce-tree  boughs ; 
'Tis  Christmas  morning:  Christmas  mirth 
And  joyous  voices  fill  the  house. 


20  LOST   AT   SEA 

I  pause,  and  know  not  what  to  do ; 
I  feel  reproach  that  I  am  glad  : 
Until  to-day,  no  thought  of  you, 

0  Comrade  !   ever  made  me  sad. 

But  now  the  thought  of  your  blithe  heart, 
Your  ringing  laugh,  can  give  me  pain, 
Knowing  that  we  are  worlds  apart, 
Not  knowing  we  shall  meet  again. 

For  all  is  dark  that  lies  in  store : 
Though  they  may  preach,  the  brotherhood, 
We  know  just  this,  and  nothing  more, 
That  we  are  dust,  and  God  is  good. 

What  life  begins  when  death  makes  end  ? 
Sleek  gownsmen,  is 't  so  very  clear  ? 
How  fares  it  with  us  ?  —  O  my  Friend, 

1  only  know  you  are  not  here ! 

That  I  am  in  a  warm,  light  room, 
With  life  and  love  to  comfort  me, 
While  you  are  drifting  through  the  gloom, 
Beneath  the  sea,  beneath  the  sea ! 

O  wild  green  waves  that  lash  the  sands 
Of  Santiago  and  beyond, 
Lift  him,  I  pray,  with  gentle  hands, 
And  bear  him  on  —  true  heart  and  fond  ! 


THE   QUEEN'S    RIDE  21 

To  some  still  grotto  far  below 
The  washings  of  the  warm  Gulf  Stream 
Bear  him,  and  let  the  winds  that  blow 
About  the  world  not  break  his  dream  ! 

—  I  smooth  my  brow.     Upon  the  stair 
I  hear  my  children  shout  in  glee, 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  floating  hair, 
Bringing  a  Christmas  wreath  for  me. 

Their  joy,  like  sunshine  deep  and  broad, 
Falls  on  my  heart,  and  makes  me  glad : 
I  think  the  face  of  our  dear  Lord 
Looks  down  on  them,  and  seems  not  sad. 


THE  QUEEN'S   RIDE 

AN   INVITATION 

'T  is  that  fair  time  of  year, 
When  stately  Guinevere, 
In  her  sea-green  robe  and  hood, 
Went  a-riding  through  the  wood. 

And  as  the  Queen  did  ride, 
Sir  Launcelot  at  her  side 
Laughed  and  chatted,  bending  over, 
Half  her  friend  and  all  her  lover. 


22  THE   QUEEN'S   RIDE 

And  as  they  rode  along, 

The  throstle  gave  them  song, 

And  the  buds  peeped  through  the  grass 

To  see  youth  and  beauty  pass. 

And  on,  through  deathless  time, 

These  lovers  in  their  prime 

(Two  fairy  ghosts  together  !) 

Ride,  with  sea-green  robe,  and  feather ! 

And  so  we  two  will  ride, 
At  your  pleasure,  side  by  side, 
Laugh  and  chat ;  I  bending  over, 
Half  your  friend,  and  all  your  lover. 

But  if  you  like  not  this, 
And  take  my  love  amiss, 
Then  I  '11  ride  unto  the  end, 
Half  your  lover,  all  your  friend. 

So,  come  which  way  you  will. 
Valley,  upland,  plain,  and  hill 
Wait  your  coming.     For  one  day 
Loose  the  bridle,  and  away  1 


DIRGE  23 


DIRGE 

LET  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Soon,  ah,  very  soon 
We  too  shall  not  know 
Either  sun  or  moon, 
Either  grass  or  snow. 

Others  in  our  place 
Come  to  laugh  and  weep, 
Win  or  lose  the  race, 
And  to  fall  asleep. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

What  does  all  avail  — 
Love,  or  power,  or  gold  ? 
Life  is  like  a  tale 
Ended  ere  't  is  told. 


24  DIRGE 

Much  is  left  unsaid, 
Much  is  said  in  vain  — 
Shall  the  broken  thread 
Be  taken  up  again  ? 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Kisses  one  or  two 
On  his  eyelids  set, 
That,  when  all  is  through, 
He  may  not  forget. 

He  has  far  to  go  — 
Is  it  East  or  West  ? 
Whither  ?     Who  may  know ! 
Let  him  take  his  rest. 

Wind,  and  snow,  and  sleet  — 
So  the  long  night  dies. 
Draw  the  winding-sheet, 
Cover  up  his  eyes. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 


ON    LYNN   TERRACE  25 


ON   LYNN  TERRACE 

ALL  day  to  watch  the  blue  wave  curl  and  break, 

All  night  to  hear  it  plunging  on  the  shore  — 
In  this  sea-dream  such  draughts  of  life  I  take, 
I  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain, 

The  task  unfinished,  and  the  weary  hours  ; 

That  long  wave  softly  bears  me  back  to  Spain 

And  the  Alhambra's  towers  ! 

Once  more  I  halt  in  Andalusian  Pass, 

To  list  the  mule-bells  jingling  on  the  height; 
Below,  against  the  dull  esparto  grass, 
The  almonds  glimmer  white. 

Huge    gateways,    wrinkled,    with   rich   grays   and 

browns, 

Invite  my  fancy,  and  I  wander  through 
The  gable-shadowed,  zigzag  streets  of  towns 
The  world's  first  sailors  knew. 

Or,  if  I  will,  from  out  this  thin  sea-haze 
Low-lying  cliffs  of  lovely  Calais  rise ; 
Or  yonder,  with  the  pomp  of  olden  days, 
Venice  salutes  my  eyes. 


26  ON    LYNN   TERRACE 

Or  some  gaunt  castle  lures  me  up  its  stair ; 
I  see,  far  off,  the  red-tiled  hamlets  shine, 
And  catch,  through  slits  of  windows  here  and  there, 
Blue  glimpses  of  the  Rhine. 

Again  I  pass  Norwegian  fjord  and  fell, 

And  through  bleak  wastes  to  where  the  sunset's 

fires 

Light  up  the  white-walled  Russian  citadel, 
The  Kremlin's  domes  and  spires. 

And  now  I  linger  in  green  English  lanes, 
By  garden-plots  of  rose  and  heliotrope ; 
And  now  I  face  the  sudden  pelting  rains 
On  some  lone  Alpine  slope. 

Now  at  Tangier,  among  the  packed  bazaars, 
I  saunter,  and  the  merchants  at  the  doors 
Smile,  and  entice  me :  here  are  jewels  like  stars, 
And  curved  knives  of  the  Moors ; 

Cloths  of  Damascus,  strings  of  amber  dates  ; 

What  would  Howadji  —  silver,  gold,  or  stone? 
Prone  on  the  sun-scorched  plain  outside  the  gates 
The  camels  make  their  moan. 

All  this  is  mine,  as  I  lie  dreaming  here, 

High  on  the  windy  terrace,  day  by  day ; 
And  mine  the  children's  laughter,  sweet  and  clear, 
Ringing  across  the  bay. 


SEADRIFT  27 

For  me  the  clouds  ;  the  ships  sail  by  for  me ; 

For  me  the  petulant  sea-gull  takes  its  flight ; 
And  mine  the  tender  moonrise  on  the  sea, 
And  hollow  caves  of  night. 


SEADRIFT 

SEE  where  she  stands,  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

Looking  across  the  water  : 
Wild  is  the  night,  but  wilder  still 

The  face  of  the  fisher's  daughter. 

What  does  she  there,  in  the  lightning's  glare, 

What  does  she  there,  I  wonder  ? 
What  dread  demon  drags  her  forth 

In  the  night  and  wind  and  thunder  ? 

Is  it  the  ghost  that  haunts  this  coast  ?  — 

The  cruel  waves  mount  higher, 
And  the  beacon  pierces  the  stormy  dark 

With  its  javelin  of  fire. 

Beyond  the  light  of  the  beacon  bright 

A  merchantman  is  tacking ; 
The  hoarse  wind  whistling  through  the  shrouds, 

And  the  brittle  topmasts  cracking. 


28  SEADRIFT 

The  sea  it  moans  over  dead  men's  bones, 

The  sea  turns  white  in  anger ; 
The  curlews  sweep  through  the  resonant  air 

With  a  warning  cry  of  danger. 

The  star-fish  clings  to  the  sea-weed's  rings 

In  a  vague,  dumb  sense  of  peril ; 
And  the  spray,  with  its  phantom-fingers,  grasps 

At  the  mullein  dry  and  sterile. 

Oh,  who  is  she  that  stands  by  the  sea, 
In  the  lightning's  glare,  undaunted  ?  — 

Seems  this  now  like  the  coast  of  hell 
By  one  white  spirit  haunted  ! 

The  night  drags  by ;  and  the  breakers  die 

Along  the  ragged  ledges ; 
The  robin  stirs  in  his  drenched  nest, 

The  wild-rose  droops  on  the  hedges. 

In  shimmering  lines,  through  the  dripping  pines, 

The  stealthy  morn  advances  ; 
And  the  heavy  sea-fog  straggles  back 

Before  those  bristling  lances. 

Still  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea-sands ; 

The  morning  breaks  above  her, 
And  the  corpse  of  a  sailor  gleams  on  the  rocks  — 

What  if  it  were  her  lover  ? 


THE   PIAZZA   OF   ST.    MARK  29 

THE   PIAZZA   OF   ST.   MARK  AT 
MIDNIGHT 

HUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices  ; 
Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders, 
Slender-waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 
Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 
Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 
One  after  one,  like  sparks  in  cindered  paper, 
Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmiths'  windows. 
Drenched  with  the  moonlight  lies  the  still  Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 
Yonder  St.  Mark  uplifts  its  sculptured  splendor  — 
Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 
Color  on  color,  column  upon  column, 
Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to  ! 
Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses, 
Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril, 
Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 
Skyward,  a  cloud  of  domes  and  spires  and  crosses  ; 
Earthward,  black  shadows  flung  from  jutting  stone 
work. 

High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 
Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver. 

Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices. 
Listen  —  from  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 


30  THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS 

Now  and  again  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon, 
Fairily  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 
This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 
Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble, 
Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  break  the  stillness. 
Deeper  each  moment  seems  to  grow  the  silence, 
Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 
Hark !  on  the  Tower  above  the  ancient  gateway, 
The   twin   bronze  Vulcans,  with  their  ponderous 

hammers, 
Hammer  the  midnight  on  their  brazen  bell  there ! 


THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS 

THE  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 
Fills  my  deep  dreaming.     Let  him  moan  and  die ; 
I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 
I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 
Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 
And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go ; 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth. 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 
On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 
Roaming  the  universe,  a  tireless  voice. 


THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS  31 

I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were ; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon  ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  in  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant  glooms,  I  dwelt ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 
A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 
Ploughed  through  the  brine,  and  from  those  soli 
tudes 

Sent  Silence,  frightened.     To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  heard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 
The  stormy  sea-gods,  and  from  fluted  conchs 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 
Some  moaning  and  some  singing.     So  the  years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine  and  split  the  iron  rock ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bird, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted ;  so  we  fled, 


32  THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS 

Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-gods  left  behind ! 

Free  as  the  air  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew, 
Far  from  the  tumult  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  daybreak ;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ran  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands, 
And  here  and  there  a  convent  on  a  hill, 
And  here  and  there  a  city  in  a  plain ; 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  hidden  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts, 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea 
To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul  ? 
A  breath,  no  more.     And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price  —  that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream, 
That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 
Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 
Leapt  headlong  down  a  precipice  ;  and  there, 
Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 
Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 
Than  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 
Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 
Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 


THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS  33 

For  beauty  and  great  suffering  ;  and  I  sung, 

I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and  then 

Down  from  the  dewy  atmosphere  I  stole 

And  nestled  in  her  bosom.     There  I  slept 

From  moon  to  moon,  while  in  her  eyes  a  thought 

Grew  sweet  and  sweeter,  deepening  like  dawn  — 

A  mystical  forewarning  !     When  the  stream, 

Breaking  through  leafless  brambles  and  dead  leaves, 

Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 

The  fruit  dropt  noiseless  through  the  autumn  night, 

I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do : 

We  weep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die ! 

So  was  it  destined  ;  and  thus  came  I  here, 

To  walk  the  earth  and  wear  the  form  of  Man, 

To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 

One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  everything  for  naught  ? 
No  !  let  me  sit  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like   sleep ;   and   though   I   waiting 

starve, 

I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park ; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul ; 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


34          BAYARD  TAYLOR 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

IN  other  years  —  lost  youth's  enchanted  years, 

Seen  now,  and  evermore,  through  blinding  tears 

And  empty  longing  for  what  may  not  be  — 

The  Desert  gave  him  back  to  us ;  the  Sea 

Yielded  him  up ;  the  icy  Norland  strand 

Lured  him  not  long,  nor  that  soft  German  air 

He  loved  could  keep  him.     Ever  his  own  land 

Fettered  his  heart  and  brought  him  back  again. 

What  sounds  are  these  of  farewell  and  despair 

Borne  on  the  winds  across  the  wintry  main  ! 

What  unknown  way  is  this  that  he  has  gone, 

Our  Bayard,  in  such  silence  and  alone  ? 

What  dark  new  quest  has  tempted  him  once  more 

To  leave  us  ?     Vainly,  standing  by  the  shore, 

We  strain  our  eyes.     But  patience  !     When  the  soft 

Spring  gales  are  blowing  over  Cedarcroft, 

Whitening  the  hawthorn  ;  when  the  violets  bloom 

Along  the  Brandywine,  and  overhead 

The  sky  is  blue  as  Italy's,  he  will  come  .  .  . 

In  the  wind's  whisper,  in  the  swaying  pine, 

In  song  of  bird  and  blossoming  of  vine, 

And  all  fair  things  he  loved  ere  he  was  dead ! 


INTERLUDES 


HESPERIDES 

IF  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me, 
This  is  what  my  songs  would  be  : 
Hints  of  our  sea-breezes,  blent 
With  odors  from  the  Orient ; 
Indian  vessels  deep  with  spice  ; 
Star-showers  from  the  Norland  ice ; 
Wine-red  jewels  that  seem  to  hold 
Fire,  but  only  burn  with  cold ; 
Antique  goblets,  strangely  wrought, 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  happy  thought, 
Bridal  measures,  vain  regrets, 
Laburnum  buds  and  violets  ; 
Hopeful  as  the  break  of  day ; 
Clear  as  crystal ;  new  as  May ; 
Musical  as  brooks  that  run 
O'er  yellow  shallows  in  the  sun ; 
Soft  as  the  satin  fringe  that  shades 
The  eyelids  of  thy  Devon  maids  ; 
Brief  as  thy  lyrics,  Herrick,  are, 
And  polished  as  the  bosom  of  a  star. 
35 


36  INTERLUDES 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN 

WE  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 
A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 

Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 
To  scatter  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  ! 


AFTER  THE  RAIN 

THE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood  ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 


INTERLUDES  37 

A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye. 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


A   SNOWFLAKE 

ONCE  he  sang  of  summer, 
Nothing  but  the  summer ; 
Now  he  sings  of  winter, 
Of  winter  bleak  and  drear : 
Just  because  there 's  fallen 
A  snowflake  on  his  forehead 
He  must  go  and  fancy 
'T  is  winter  all  the  year ! 


FROST-WORK 

THESE  winter  nights,  against  my  window-pane 
Nature  with  busy  pencil  draws  designs 
Of  ferns  and  blossoms  and  fine  spray  of  pines, 
Oak-leaf  and  acorn  and  fantastic  vines, 


38  INTERLUDES 

Which  she  will  shape  when  summer  comes  again 
Quaint  arabesques  in  argent,  flat  and  cold, 
Like  curious  Chinese  etchings.  ...  By  and  by 
(I  in  my  leafy  garden  as  of  old) 
These  frosty  fantasies  shall  charm  my  eye 
In  azure,  damask,  emerald,  and  gold. 


THE  ONE  WHITE   ROSE 

A  SORROWFUL  woman  said  to  me, 
"  Come  in  and  look  on  our  child." 
I  saw  an  Angel  at  shut  of  day, 
And  it  never  spoke  —  but  smiled. 

I  think  of  it  in  the  city's  streets, 
I  dream  of  it  when  I  rest  — 
The  violet  eyes,  the  waxen  hands, 
And  the  one  white  rose  on  the  breast ! 


LANDSCAPE 

GAUNT  shadows  stretch  along  the  hill ; 
Cold  clouds  drift  slowly  west ; 
Soft  flocks  of  vagrant  snowflakes  fill 
The  redwing's  frozen  nest. 


INTERLUDES  39 

By  sunken  reefs  the  hoarse  sea  roars ; 
Above  the  shelving  sands, 
Like  skeletons  the  sycamores 
Uplift  their  wasted  hands. 

The  air  is  full  of  hints  of  grief, 
Faint  voices  touched  with  pain  — 
The  pathos  of  the  falling  leaf 
And  rustling  of  the  rain. 

In  yonder  cottage  shines  a  light, 
Far-gleaming  like  a  gem  — 
Not  fairer  to  the  Rabbins'  sight 
Was  star  of  Bethlehem  ! 


NOCTURNE 

UP  to  her  chamber  window 
A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 

I  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 
I  see  the  lady  lean, 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 
The  curtain's  folds  between. 


40  INTERLUDES 

She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  lover, 
She  reaches  out  her  hand 
And  helps  him  in  at  the  window  — 
I  see  it  where  I  stand  ! 

To  her  scarlet  lip  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time  — 
Ah,  me  !  it  was  he  that  won  her 
Because  he  dared  to  climb ! 


APPRECIATION 

To  the  sea-shell's  spiral  round 
'T  is  your  heart  that  brings  the  sound 
The  soft  sea-murmurs  that  you  hear 
Within,  are  captured  from  your  ear. 

You  do  poets  and  their  song 

A  grievous  wrong, 

If  your  own  soul  does  not  bring 

To  their  high  imagining 

As  much  beauty  as  they  sing. 


INTERLUDES  41 

PALABRAS  CARlftOSAS 
(SPANISH  AIR) 

GOOD-NIGHT  !  I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  the  slender  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings  ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  farewells.     Till  then,  good-night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands !  ah,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 


42  INTERLUDES 

APPARITIONS 

AT  noon  of  night,  and  at  the  night's  pale  end, 
Such  things  have  chanced  to  me 

As  one,  by  day,  would  scarcely  tell  a  friend 
For  fear  of  mockery. 

Shadows,  you  say,  mirages  of  the  brain  ! 

I  know  not,  faith,  not  I. 
Is  it  more  strange  the  dead  should  walk  again 

Than  that  the  quick  should  die  ? 


UNSUNG 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  blown  rose, 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights, 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air, 
Is  the  song  I  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 
I  have  said  the  mystic  rhymes, 


INTERLUDES  43 

But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  flies ; 

Of  the  interfluent  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains  : 

I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 

And  my  heart  is  deeply  stirred 

By  an  unremembered  word  ! 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain, 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay ; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
I  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  I  have  never  sung. 


AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT 

I  WONDER  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year  — 
Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier  ?  . 

—  What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 


44  INTERLUDES 

While  she  gives  the  last  touch  to  her  robe, 
Or  sets  the  white  rose  in  her  hair. 


As  the  carriage  rolls  down  the  dark  street 
The  little  wife  laughs  and  makes  cheer  — 
But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year. 


ONE  WOMAN 

THOU  listenest  to  us  with  unheeding  ear ; 
Alike  to  thee  our  censure  and  our  praise : 
Thou  hearest  voices  that  we  may  not  hear ; 
Thou  livest  only  in  thy  yesterdays. 

We  see  thee  move,  erect  and  pale  and  brave  ; 
Soft  words  are  thine,  sweet  deeds,  and  gracious 

will; 

Yet  thou  art  dead  as  any  in  the  grave  — 
Only  thy  presence  lingers  with  us  still. 

With  others,  joy  and  sorrow  seem  to  slip 
Like  light  and  shade,  and  laughter  kills  regret ; 
But  thou  —  the  fugitive  tremor  of  thy  lip 
Lays  bare  thy  secret  —  thou  canst  not  forget ! 


INTERLUDES  45 

REALISM 

ROMANCE  beside  his  unstrung  lute 

Lies  stricken  mute. 
The  old-time  fire,  the  antique  grace, 
You  will  not  find  them  anywhere. 
To-day  we  breathe  a  commonplace, 
Polemic,  scientific  air : 
We  strip  Illusion  of  her  veil ; 
We  vivisect  the  nightingale 
To  probe  the  secret  of  his  note. 
The  Muse  in  alien  ways  remote 

Goes  wandering. 


DISCIPLINE 

IN  the  crypt  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
They  lay  there,  a  score  of  the  Dead  : 
They  could  hear  the  priest  at  his  prayers, 
And  the  litany  overhead. 

They  knew  when  the  great  crowd  stirred 
As  the  Host  was  lifted  on  high  ; 
And  they  smiled  in  the  dark  when  they  heard 
Some  light-footed  nun  trip  by. 


46  INTERLUDES 

Side  by  side  on  their  shelves 

For  years  and  years  they  lay ; 

And  those  who  misbehaved  themselves 

Had  their  coffin-plates  taken  away. 

Thus  is  the  legend  told 
In  black-letter  monkish  rhyme, 
Explaining  those  plaques  of  gold 
That  vanished  from  time  to  time ! 


DESTINY 

THREE    roses,  wan  as  moonlight  and  weighed 

down 

Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a  crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a  town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at  rest, 
Like   flower   on   flower,  that  night,  on  Beauty's 
breast. 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's  hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief  made  wild, 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead  child. 


INTERLUDES  47 

NAMELESS  PAIN 

IN  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 
Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose : 
Oh  for  the  golden,  golden  wind, 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes ! 
Breaking  the  buds  and  bending  the  grass, 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose. 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 
Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to-day 
And  scatter  its  nameless  pain ! 


HEREDITY 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Cromwell  stamp, 
With  sword  and  psalm-book  by  his  side, 
At  home  alike  in  church  and  camp  : 
Austere  he  lived,  and  smileless  died. 

But  she,  a  creature  soft  and  fine  — 

From  Spain,  some  say,  some  say  from  France  ; 


48  INTERLUDES 

Within  her  veins  leapt  blood  like  wine  — 
She  led  her  Roundhead  lord  a  dance ! 


In  Grantham  church  they  lie  asleep  ; 
Just  where,  the  verger  may  not  know. 
Strange  that  two  hundred  years  should  keep 
The  old  ancestral  fires  aglow  ! 

In  me  these  two  have  met  again  ; 
To  each  my  nature  owes  a  part : 
To  one,  the  cool  and  reasoning  brain, 
To  one,  the  quick,  unreasoning  heart. 


IDENTITY 

SOMEWHERE  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space  • 
In  Twilight-land  —  in  No-man's-land  — 

Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  cried  one  a-gape, 
Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night !  " 


INTERLUDES  49 

LYRICS  AND  EPICS 

I  WOULD  be  the  Lyric 
Ever  on  the  lip, 
Rather  than  the  Epic 
Memory  lets  slip. 
I  would  be  the  diamond 
At  my  lady's  ear, 
Rather  than  the  June-rose 
Worn  but  once  a  year. 


A  WINTER  PIECE 

Sous  le  voile  qui  vous  protege, 
Defiant  les  regards  jaloux, 
Si  vous  sortez  par  cette  neige, 
Redoutez  vos  pieds  andalous. 

THEOPHILB  GAUTIER 

BENEATH  the  heavy  veil  you  wear, 
Shielded  from  jealous  eyes  you  go ; 
But  of  your  pretty  feet  have  care 
If  you  should  venture  through  the  snow. 

Howe'er  you  tread,  a  tiny  mould 
Betrays  that  light  foot  all  the  same ; 


50  INTERLUDES 

-    Upon  this  glistening,  snowy  fold 
At  every  step  it  signs  your  name. 

Thus  guided,  one  might  come  too  close 
Upon  the  slyly-hidden  nest 
Where  Psyche,  with  her  cheek's  cold  rose, 
On  Love's  warm  bosom  lies  at  rest. 


KRISS  KRINGLE 

(Written  in  a  child's  album) 

JUST  as  the  moon  was  fading  amid  her  misty  rings, 
And  every  stocking  was  stuffed  with  childhood's 

precious  things, 
Old  Kriss  Kringle  looked  round,  and  saw  on  the 

elm-tree  bough, 

High-hung,  an  oriole's  nest,  silent  and  empty  now. 
"Quite  like  a  stocking,"  he  laughed,  "pinned  up 

there  on  the  tree ! 
Little  I  thought  the  birds  expected  a  present  from 

me!" 
Then  old  Kriss  Kringle,  who  loves  a  joke  as  well 

as  the  best, 
Dropped  a  handful  of  flakes  in  the  oriole's  empty 

nest. 


INTERLUDES  51 

RENCONTRE 

TOILING  across  the  Mer  de  Glace, 

I  thought  of,  longed  for  thee ; 

What  miles  between  us  stretched,  alas  1  — 

What  miles  of  land  and  sea ! 

My  foe,  undreamed  of,  at  my  side 
Stood  suddenly,  like  Fate. 
For  those  who  love,  the  world  is  wide, 
But  not  for  those  who  hate. 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR 

THE  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes ; 
Wild-flowers  are  fringing  the  dusty  lanes, 
The  swallows  go  darting  through  fragrant  rains, 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden  —  it  snows. 

Dear  Heart,  our  lives  so  happily  flow, 
So  lightly  we  heed  the  flying  hours, 
We  only  know  Winter  is  gone  —  by  the  flowers, 

We  only  know  Winter  is  come  —  by  the  snow. 


52  INTERLUDES 

LOST  ART 


WHEN  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart 
I  made  sad  songs  with  easy  art : 
Now  I  am  sad,  and  no  more  young, 
My  sorrow  cannot  find  a  tongue. 


ii 

Pray,  Muses,  since  I  may  not  sing 
Of  Death  or  any  grievous  thing, 
Teach  me  some  joyous  strain,  that  I 
May  mock  my  youth's  hypocrisy ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD 


PROEM 


You  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no 
Our  many-colored  songs  are  wrought: 
Upon  the  cunning  loom  of  thought 
We  weave  our  fancies,  so  and  so. 

ii 

The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 
Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  weaves 
A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves, 
With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 

in 

With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold : 
When  woven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 
Nor  time  can  make  its  colors  fade. 
53 


54  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

AN  ARAB  WELCOME 

BECAUSE  thou  com'st,  a  weary  guest, 
Unto  my  tent,  I  bid  thee  rest. 
This  cruse  of  oil,  this  skin  of  wine, 
These  tamarinds  and  dates  are  thine ; 
Ana  while  thou  eatest,  Medjid,  there, 
Shall  bathe  the  heated  nostrils  of  thy  mare. 

Illah  il'  Allah  !     Even  so 
An  Arab  chieftain  treats  a  foe, 
Holds  him  as  one  without  a  fault 
Who  breaks  his  bread  and  tastes  his  .salt ; 
And,  in  fair  battle,  strikes  him  dead 
With  the  same  pleasure  that  he  gives  him  bread. 


A  TURKISH  LEGEND 

A  CERTAIN  Pasha,  dead  these  thousand  years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden  tears, 

And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate 
Deeply  engraven,  Only  God  is  great. 

So  those  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice, 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  55 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbacan, 
Saluted  each  returning  caravan. 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.     Every  gust 
Lifts,  with  dead   leaves,  the   unknown   Pasha's 
dust. 

And  all  is  ruin  —  save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written,  Only  God  is  great. 


THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS 

KIND  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Remembered  me  with  such  a  gracious  hand, 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  haughty  bosom  of  a  queen. 
No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast ; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turbaned  slave  shall  envy  and  adore. 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar  brought  from  Lebanon, 

Once  borne,  perchance,  by  some  pale  monk  who 

trod 

The  desert  to  Jerusalem  and  his  God. 
Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 


56  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Each  with  deep  meaning  to  our  human  needs, 

Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 

By  tears,  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom,  and  death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me. 

The  waning  Crescent  lacks  divinity  : 

It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 

Of  women  shut  in  dim  seraglios. 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me, 

And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom  — 

The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb. 


THE  UNFORGIVEN 

NEAR  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  picture  jewels  could 
not  buy  from  me  : 

'Tis  a  Siren,  a  brown  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed  dra 
pery, 

Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 
sea. 

In  the  east,  the  rose  of  morning  seems  as  if  't  would 

blossom  soon, 
But  it  never,  never  blossoms,  in  this  picture ;  and 

the  moon 
Never  ceases  to  be  crescent,  and  the  June  is  always 

June. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  57 

And  the  heavy-branched   banana  never  yields  its 

creamy  fruit ; 
In  the  citron-trees  are  nightingales  forever  stricken 

mute; 
And  the  Siren  sits,  her  ringers  on  the  pulses  of  the 

lute. 

In  the  hushes  of  the  midnight,  when  the  heliotropes 
grow  strong 

With  the  dampness,  I  hear  music  —  hear  a  quiet, 
plaintive  song  — 

A  most  sad,  melodious  utterance,  as  of  some  im 
mortal  wrong ; 

Like   the   pleading,  oft  repeated,  of  a  Soul   that 

pleads  in  vain, 
Of  a  damned  Soul  repentant,  that  would  fain  be 

pure  again !  — 
And  I  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  music  of  her 

pain. 

And  whence  comes  this  mournful  music  ?  —  whence, 

unless  it  chance  to  be 
From  the  Siren,  the  brown  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed 

drapery, 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 

sea. 


58  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

DRESSING  THE  BRIDE 

A   FRAGMENT 

So,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought 
The  broidered  raiment  for  her  wear, 
The  misty  izar  from  Mosul, 
The  pearls  and  opals  for  her  hair, 
The  slippers  for  her  supple  feet, 
(Two  radiant  crescent  moons  they  were,) 
And  lavender,  and  spikenard  sweet, 
And  attars,  nedd,  and  richest  musk. 
When  they  had  finished  dressing  her, 
(The  Eye  of  Dawn,  the  Heart's  Desire !) 
Like  one  pale  star  against  the  dusk, 
A  single  diamond  on  her  brow 
Trembled  with  its  imprisoned  fire. 


TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN 
i 

O  CEASE,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest ! 
Too  soon  the  hateful  light  is  born ; 
Henceforth  let  day  be  counted  night, 
And  midnight  called  the  morn. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  59 

O  cease,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest ! 
A  tearful,  languid  spirit  lies, 
Like  the  dim  scent  in  violets, 
In  beauty's  gentle  eyes. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  sweet  sound 
That  quickens  tears.     O  music,  lest 
We  weep  with  thy  strange  sorrow,  cease ! 
Be  still,  and  let  us  rest. 


ii 

Ah !  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

Oh,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 


60  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  slumber  in  his  heart  by  night. 


TIGER-LILIES 

I  LIKE  not  lady-slippers, 
Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 
Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 
Red,  or  white  as  snow ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 
That  in  our  garden  grow. 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender  ; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine ; 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 

They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful  — 

They  are  Circassian  women, 

The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks. 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 
I  sit  beside  the  window 
And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 
How  they  burn  and  glow ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  61 

Oh  for  the  burning  lilies, 
The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 
That  in  our  garden  grow ! 


THE  SULTANA 

IN  the  draperies'  purple  gloom, 
In  the  gilded  chamber  she  stands, 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bosom's  bloom, 
And  the  white  of  her  jewelled  hands. 

Each  wandering  wind  that  blows 

By  the  lattice,  seems  to  bear 

From  her  parted  lips  the  scent  of  the  rose, 

And  the  jasmine  from  her  hair. 

Her  dark-browed  odalisques  lean 

To  the  fountain's  feathery  rain, 

And  a  paroquet,  by  the  broidered  screen, 

Dangles  its  silvery  chain. 

But  pallid,  luminous,  cold, 
Like  a  phantom  she  fills  the  place, 
Sick  to  the  heart,  in  that  cage  of  gold, 
With  her  sumptuous  disgrace. 


62  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 

AT  Haroun's  court  it  chanced,  upon  a  time, 
An  Arab  poet  made  this  pleasant  rhyme  : 

"The    new   moon    is    a   horseshoe,    wrought   of 

God, 
Wherewith  the  Sultan's  stallion  shall  be  shod." 

On  hearing  this,  the  Sultan  smiled,  and  gave 
The  man  a  gold-piece.     Sing  again,  O  slave  ! 

Above  his  lute  the  happy  singer  bent, 
And  turned  another  gracious  compliment. 

And,  as  before,  the  smiling  Sultan  gave 
The  man  a  sekkah.     Sing  again,  O  slave  f 

Again  the  verse  came,  fluent  as  a  rill 
That  wanders,  silver-footed,  down  a  hill. 

The  Sultan,  listening,  nodded  as  before, 
Still  gave  the  gold,  and  still  demanded  more. 

The  nimble  fancy  that  had  climbed  so  high 
Grew  weary  with  its  climbing  by  and  by : 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  63 

Strange   discords   rose ;    the   sense   went   quite 

amiss ; 
The  singer's  rhymes  refused  to  meet  and  kiss  : 

Invention  flagged,  the  lute  had  got  unstrung, 
And  twice  he  sang  the  song  already  sung. 

The  Sultan,  furious,  called  a  mute,  and  said, 
O  Musta,  straightway  whip  me  off  his  head ! 

Poets  !  not  in  Arabia  alone 

You  get  beheaded  when  your  skill  is  gone. 


LATAKIA 


WHEN  all  the  panes  are  hung  with  frost, 
Wild  wizard-work  of  silver  lace, 
I  draw  my  sofa  on  the  rug 
Before  the  ancient  chimney-place. 
Upon  the  painted  tiles  are  mosques 
And  minarets,  and  here  and  there 
A  blind  muezzin  lifts  his  hands 
And  calls  the  faithful  unto  prayer. 
Folded  in  idle,  twilight  dreams, 


64  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

I  hear  the  hemlock  chirp  and  sing 

As  if  within  its  ruddy  core 

It  held  the  happy  heart  of  Spring. 

Ferdousi  never  sang  like  that, 

Nor  Saadi  grave,  nor  Hafiz  gay  : 

I  lounge,  and  blow  white  rings  of  smoke, 

And  watch  them  rise  and  float  away. 


ii 

The  curling  wreaths  like  turbans  seem 
Of  silent  slaves  that  come  and  go  — 
Or  Viziers,  packed  with  craft  and  crime, 
Whom  I  behead  from  time  to  time, 
With  pipe-stem,  at  a  single  blow. 

And  now  and  then  a  lingering  cloud 
Takes  gracious  form  at  my  desire, 
And  at  my  side  my  lady  stands, 
Unwinds  her  veil  with  snowy  hands  — 
A  shadowy  shape,  a  breath  of  fire  ! 

O  Love,  if  you  were  only  here 
Beside  me  in  this  mellow  light, 
Though  all  the  bitter  winds  should  blow, 
And  all  the  ways  be  choked  with  snow, 
'T  would  be  a  true  Arabian  night ! 


.  CLOTH  OF  GOLD  65 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN 

WHEN  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 

Even  before  he  gets  so  far 

As   the   place  where   the    clustered   palm-trees 

are, 

At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  flower  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room  — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots, 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes  ; 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 
And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 
Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors ; 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pointed  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 


66  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Till  they  bloom  again ;  but,  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows, 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Glide  in  like  shapes  from  fairy-land, 
Making  a  sudden  mist  in  air 
Of  fleecy  veils  and  floating  hair 
And  white  arms  lifted.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes. 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  sandal-wood, 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
That 's  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light, 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  67 

A  PRELUDE 

HASSAN  BEN  ABDUL  at  the  Ivory  Gate 

Of  Bagdad  sat  and  chattered  in  the  sun, 

Like  any  magpie  chattered  to  himself 

And  four  lank,  swarthy  Arab  boys  that  stopped 

A  gambling  game  with  peach-pits,  and  drew  near. 

Then  Iman  Khan,  the  friend  of  thirsty  souls, 

The  seller  of  pure  water,  ceased  his  cry, 

And  placed  his  water-skins  against  the  gate  — 

They  looked  so  like  him,  with  their  sallow  cheeks 

Puffed  out  like  Iman's.     Then  a  eunuch  came 

And  swung  a  pack  of  sweetmeats  from  his  head, 

And  stood  —  a  hideous  pagan  cut  in  jet. 

And  then  a  Jew,  whose  sandal-straps  were  red 

With  desert-dust,  limped,  cringing,  to  the  crowd ; 

He,  too,  would  listen  ;  and  close  after  him 

A  jeweller  that  glittered  like  his  shop. 

Then  two  blind  mendicants,  who  wished  to  go 

Six  diverse  ways  at  once,  came  stumbling  by, 

But  hearing  Hassan  chatter,  sat  them  down. 

And  if  the  Khalif  had  been  riding  near, 

He  would  have  paused  to  listen  like  the  rest, 

For  Hassan's  fame  was  ripe  in  all  the  East. 

From  white-walled  Cairo  to  far  Ispahan, 

From  Mecca  to  Damascus,  he  was  known, 

Hassan,  the  Arab  with  the  Singing  Heart. 


68  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

His  songs  were  sung  by  boatmen  on  the  Nile, 
By  Beddowee  maidens,  and  in  Tartar  camps, 
While  all  men  loved  him  as  they  loved  their  eyes ; 
And  when  he  spake,  the  wisest,  next  to  him, 
Was  he  who  listened.     And  thus  Hassan  sung. 
—  And  I,  a  stranger  lingering  in  Bagdad, 
Half  English  and  half  Arab,  by  my  beard  ! 
Caught  at  the  gilded  epic  as  it  grew, 
And  for  my  Christian  brothers  wrote  it  down. 


TO  HAFIZ 

THOUGH  gifts  like  thine  the  fates  gave  not  to 

me, 

One  thing,  O  Hafiz,  we  both  hold  in  fee  — 
Nay,  it  holds  us ;  for  when  the  June  wind  blows 
We  both  are  slaves  and  lovers  to  the  rose. 
In  vain  the  pale  Circassian  lily  shows 
Her  face  at  her  green  lattice,  and  in  vain 
The  violet  beckons,  with  unveiled  face  — 
The  bosom's  white,  the  lip's  light  purple  stain, 
These  touch  our  liking,  yet  no  passion  stir. 
But  when  the  rose  comes,  Hafiz  —  in  that  place 
Where   she   stands   smiling,   we   kneel    down   to 

her! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  69 

AT  NIJNII-NOVGOROD 

"  A  CRAFTY  Persian  set  this  stone ; 

A  dusk  Sultana  wore  it ; 
And  from  her  slender  finger,  sir, 
A  ruthless  Arab  tore  it. 

"  A  ruby,  like  a  drop  of  blood  — 
That  deep-in  tint  that  lingers 
And  seems  to  melt,  perchance  was  caught 
From  those  poor  mangled  fingers ! 

"  A  spendthrift  got  it  from  the  knave, 

And  tossed  it,  like  a  blossom, 
That  night  into  a  dancing-girl's 
Accurst  and  balmy  bosom. 

"  And  so  it  went.     One  day  a  Jew 

At  Cairo  chanced  to  spy  it 
Amid  a  one-eyed  peddler's  pack, 
And  did  not  care  to  buy  it  — 

"  Yet  bought  it  all  the  same.     You  see, 

The  Jew  he  knew  a  jewel. 
He  bought  it  cheap  to  sell  it  dear : 
The  ways  of  trade  are  cruel. 


70  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

"  But  I  —  be  Allah's  all  the  praise  !  — 

Such  avarice,  I  scoff  it ! 
If  I  buy  cheap,  why,  I  sell  cheap, 
Content  with  modest  profit. 

"This  ring  —  such  chasing!  look,  milord, 

What  workmanship  !     By  Heaven, 
The  price  I  name  you  makes  the  thing 
As  if  the  thing  were  given  ! 

"  A  stone  without  a  flaw !     A  queen 

Might  not  disdain  to  wear  it. 
Three  hundred  roubles  buys  the  stone ; 
No  kopeck  less,  I  swear  it !  " 

Thus  Hassan,  holding  up  the  ring 

To  me,  no  eager  buyer.  — 
A  hundred  roubles  was  not  much 

To  pay  so  sweet  a  liar ! 


THE  LAMENT  OF  EL  MOULOK 

WITHIN  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  mosque, 
Even  on  the  very  steps  of  St.  Sophia, 
He  lifted  up  his  voice  and  spoke  these  words, 
El  Moulok,  who  sang  naught  but  love-songs  once, 
And  now  was  crazed  because  his  son  was  dead : 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  71 

O  ye  who  leave 

Your  slippers  at  the  portal,  as  is  meet, 

Give  heed  an  instant  ere  ye  bow  in  prayer. 

Ages  ago, 

Allah,  grown  weary  of  His  myriad  worlds, 

Would  one  star  more  to  hang  against  the  blue. 

Then  of  men's  bones, 

Millions  on  millions,  did  He  build  the  earth  ; 

Of  women's  tears, 

Down  falling  through  the  night,  He  made  the  sea  ; 

Of  sighs  and  sobs 

He  made  the  winds  that  surge  about  the  globe. 

Where'er  ye  tread, 

Ye  tread  on  dust  that  once  was  living  man. 

The  mist  and  rain 

Are  tears  that  first  from  human  eyelids  fell. 

The  unseen  winds 

Breathe  endless  lamentation  for  the  dead. 

Not  so  the  ancient  tablets  told  the  tale, 
Not  so  the  Koran !     This  was  blasphemy, 


72  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

And  they  that  heard  El  Moulok  dragged  him  thence, 
Even  from  the  very  steps  of  St.  Sophia, 
And  loaded  him  with  triple  chains  of  steel, 
And  cast  him  in  a  dungeon. 

None  the  less 

Do  women's  tears  fall  ceaseless  day  and  night, 
And  none  the  less  do  mortals  faint  and  die 
And  turn  to  dust ;  and  every  wind  that  blows 
About  the  globe  seems  heavy  with  the  grief 
Of  those  who  sorrow,  or  have  sorrowed,  here. 
Yet  none  the  less  is  Allah  the  Most  High, 
The  Clement,  the  Compassionate.     He  sees 
Where  we  are  blind,  and  hallowed  be  His  Name ! 


NOURMADEE 

THE   POET    MIRTZY  MOHAMMED-ALI   TO  HIS    FRIEND 
ABOU-HASSEM    IN  ALGEZIRAS 

O  HASSEM,  greeting !     Peace  be  thine ! 
With  thee  and  thine  be  all  things  well ! 
Give  refuge  to  these  words  of  mine. 
The  strange  mischance  which  late  befell 
Thy  servant  must  have  reached  thine  ear ; 
Rumor  has  flung  it  far  and  wide, 
With  dark  additions,  as  I  hear. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  73 

When  They-Say  speaks,  what  ills  betide  ! 
So  lend  no  credence,  O  my  Friend, 
To  scandals,  fattening  as  they  fly. 
Love  signs  and  seals  the  roll  I  send : 
Read  thou  the  truth  with  lenient  eye. 


IN  Yiissuf's  garden  at  Tangier 
This  happened.     In  his  cool  kiosk 
We  sat  partaking  of  his  cheer  — 
Thou  know'st  that  garden  by  the  Mosque 
Of  Irma ;  stately  palms  are  there, 
And  silver  fish  in  marble  tanks, 
And  scents  of  jasmine  in  the  air  — 
We  sat  and  feasted,  with  due  thanks 
To  Allah,  till  the  pipes  were  brought ; 
And  no  one  spoke,  for  Pleasure  laid 
Her  finger  on  the  lips  of  Thought. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  came  a  maid, 
With  tambourine,  to  dance  for  us  — 
Allah  il'  Allah  !  it  was  she, 
The  slave-girl  from  the  Bosphorus 
That  Yussuf  purchased  recently. 

Long  narrow  eyes,  as  black  as  black! 
And  melting,  like  the  stars  in  June ; 
Tresses  of  night  drawn  smoothly  back 
From  eyebrows  like  the  crescent  moon. 
She  paused  an  instant  with  bowed  head, 


74  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Then,  at  a  motion  of  her  wrist, 

A  veil  of  gossamer  outspread 

And  wrapped  her  in  a  silver  mist. 

Her  tunic  was  of  Tiflis  green 

Shot  through  with  many  a  starry  speck ; 

The  zone  that  clasped  it  might  have  been 

A  collar  for  a  cygnet's  neck. 

None  of  the  thirty  charms  she  lacked 

Demanded  for  perfection's  grace ; 

Charm  upon  charm  in  her  was  packed 

Like  rose  leaves  in  a  costly  vase. 

Full  in  the  lanterns'  colored  light 

She  seemed  a  thing  of  Paradise. 

I  knew  not  if  I  saw  aright, 

Or  if  my  vision  told  me  lies. 

Those  lanterns  spread  a  cheating  glare ; 

Such  stains  they  threw  from  bough  and  vine 

As  if  the  slave-boys,  here  and  there, 

Had  spilled  a  jar  of  brilliant  wine. 

And  then  the  fountain's  drowsy  fall, 

The  burning  aloes'  heavy  scent, 

The  night,  the  place,  the  hour  —  they  all 

Were  full  of  subtle  blandishment. 

Much  had  I  heard  of  Nourmadee  — 
The  name  of  this  fair  slenderness  — 
Whom  Yiissuf  kept  with  lock  and  key 
Because  her  beauty  wrought  distress 
In  all  men's  hearts  that  gazed  on  it ; 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  75 

And  much  I  marvelled  why,  this  night, 

Yussuf  should  have  the  little  wit 

To  lift  her  veil  for  our  delight. 

For  though  the  other  guests  were  old  — 

Grave,  worthy  merchants,  three  from  Fez 

(These  mostly  dealt  in  dyes  and  gold), 

Cloth  merchants  two,  from  Meki'nez  — 

Though  they  were  old  and  gray  and  dry, 

Forgetful  of  their  youth's  desires, 

My  case  was  different,  for  I 

Still  knew  the  touch  of  springtime  fires. 

And  straightway  as  I  looked  on  her 

I  bit  my  lip,  grew  ill  at  ease, 

And  in  my  veins  was  that  strange  stir 

Which  clothes  with  bloom  the  almond-trees. 

O  Shape  of  blended  fire  and  snow ! 
Each  clime  to  her  some  spell  had  lent  — 
The  North  her  cold,  the  South  her  glow, 
Her  languors  all  the  Orient. 
Her  scarf  was  as  the  cloudy  fleece 
The  moon  draws  round  its  loveliness, 
That  so  its  beauty  may  increase 
The  more  in  being  seen  the  less. 
And  as  she  moved,  and  seemed  to  float  — 
So  floats  a  swan  !  —  in  sweet  unrest, 
A  string  of  sequins  at  her  throat 
Went  clink  and  clink  against  her  breast. 
And  what  did  some  birth-fairy  do 


76  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

But  set  a  mole,  a  golden  dot, 

Close  to  her  lip  —  to  pierce  men  through  ! 

How  could  I  look  and  love  her  not  ? 

Yet  heavy  was  my  heart  as  stone, 
For  well  I  knew  that  love  was  vain  ; 
To  love  the  thing  one  may  not  own  !  — 
I  saw  how  all  my  peace  was  slain. 
Coffers  of  ingots  Yiissuf  had, 
Houses  on  land,  and  ships  at  sea, 
And  I  —  alas  !  was  I  gone  mad, 
To  cast  my  eyes  on  Nourmadee  ! 
I  strove  to  thrust  her  from  my  mind, 
I  bent  my  brows,  and  turned  away, 
And  wished  that  Fate  had  struck  me  blind 
Ere  I  had  come  to  know  that  day. 
I  fixed  my  thoughts  on  this  and  that ; 
Assessed  the  worth  of  Yussuf 's  ring ; 
Counted  the  colors  in  the  mat  — 
And  then  a  bird  began  to  sing, 
A  bulbul  hidden  in  a  bough. 
From  time  to  time  it  loosed  a  strain 
Of  moonlit  magic  that,  somehow, 
Brought  solace  to  my  troubled  brain. 

But  when  the  girl  once,  creeping  close, 
Half  stooped,  and  looked  me  in  the  face, 
My  reason  fled,  and  I  arose 
And  cried  to  Yussuf,  from  my  place : 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  77 

"  O  Yiissuf,  give  to  me  this  girl ! 
You  are  so  rich  and  I  so  poor ! 
You  would  not  miss  one  little  pearl 
Like  that  from  out  your  countless  store  ! " 

" '  This  girl '  ?     What  girl  ?     No  girl  is  here !  " 
Cried  Yiissuf  with  his  eyes  agleam  ; 

"  Now,  by  the  Prophet,  it  is  clear 
Our  friend  has  had  a  pleasant  dream  !  " 
(And  then  it  seems  that  I  awoke, 
And  stared  around,  no  little  dazed 
At  rinding  naught  of  what  I  spoke : 
Each  guest  sat  silent  and  amazed.) 

Then  Yiissuf  —  of  all  mortal  men 
This  Yiissuf  has  a  mocking  tongue  !  — 
Stood  at  my  side,  and  spoke  again  : 
"  O  Mirtzy,  I  too  once  was  young. 
With  mandolin  or  dulcimer 
I  Ve  waited  many  a  midnight  through, 
Content  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  Her, 
And  have  my  turban  drenched  with  dew. 
By  Her  I  mean  some  slim  Malay, 
Some  Andalusian  with  her  fan 
(For  I  have  travelled  in  my  day), 
Or  some  swart  beauty  of  Soudan. 
No  Barmecide  was  I  to  fare 
On  fancy's  shadowy  wine  and  meat ; 
No  phantom  moulded  out  of  air 
Had  spells  to  lure  me  to  her  feet. 


78  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

0  Mirtzy,  be  it  understood 

1  blame  you  not.     Your  sin  is  slight !  •  /• 
You  fled  the  world  of  flesh  and  blood, 
And  loved  a  vision  of  the  night ! 
Sweeter  than  musk  such  visions  be 

As  come  to  poets  when  they  sleep ! 
You  dreamed  you  saw  fair  Nourmadee  ? 
Go  to !  it  is  a  pearl  I  keep ! " 

By  Allah,  but  his  touch  was  true ! 
And  I  was  humbled  to  the  dust 
That  I  in  those  grave  merchants'  view 
Should  seem  a  thing  no  man  might  trust. 
For  he  of  creeping  things  is  least 
Who,  while  he  breaks  of  friendship's  bread, 
Betrays  the  giver  of  the  feast. 

"  Good  friends,  I  'm  not  that  man  ! "  I  said. 

"  O  Yiissuf,  shut  not  Pardon's  gate  ! 
The  words  I  spake  I  no  wise  meant. 
Who  holds  the  threads  of  Time  and  Fate 
Sends  dreams.     I  dreamt  the  dream  he  sent. 
I  am  as  one  that  from  a  trance 
Awakes  confused,  and  reasons  ill ; 
The  world  of  men  invites  his  glance, 
The  world  of  shadows  claims  him  still. 
I  see  those  lights  among  the  leaves, 
Yourselves  I  see,  sedate  and  wise, 
And  yet  some  finer  sense  perceives 
A  presence  that  eludes  the  eyes. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  79 

Of  what  is  gone  there  seems  to  stay 
Some  subtlety,  to  mock  my  pains : 
So,  when  a  rose  is  borne  away, 
The  fragrance  of  the  rose  remains  !  " 
Then  Yiissuf  laughed,  Abdallah  leered, 
And  Melik  coughed  behind  his  hand, 
And  lean  Ben-Auda  stroked  his  beard 
As  who  should  say,  "  We  understand  !  " 
And  though  the  fault  was  none  of  mine, 
As  I  explained  and  made  appear, 
Since  then  I  Ve  not  been  asked  to  dine 
In  Yussuf's  garden  at  Tangier. 


FAREWELL,  O  Hassem !     Peace  be  thine  ! 
With  thee  and  thine  be  always  Peace  ! 
To  virtue  let  thy  steps  incline, 
And  may  thy  shadow  not  decrease  ! 
Get  wealth  —  wealth  makes  the  dullard's  jest 
Seem  witty  where  true  wit  falls  flat ; 
Do  good,  for  goodness  still  is  best  — 
But  then  the  Koran  tells  thee  that. 
Know  Patience  here,  and  later  Bliss ; 
Grow  wise,  trust  woman,  doubt  not  man  ; 
And  when  thou  dinest  out  —  mark  this  — 
Beware  of  wines  from  Ispahan  ! 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL 
BOOK  ETC. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

A.  D.   I2OO 

THE  Friar  Jerome,  for  some  slight  sin, 

Done  in  his  youth,  was  struck  with  woe. 
"When  I  am  dead,"  quoth  Friar  Jerome, 
"  Surely,  I  think  my  soul  will  go 

Shuddering  through  the  darkened  spheres, 

Down  to  eternal  fires  below ! 

I  shall  not  dare  from  that  dread  place 

To  lift  mine  eyes  to  Jesus'  face, 

Nor  Mary's,  as  she  sits  adored 

At  the  feet  of  Christ  the  Lord. 

Alas  !  December 's  all  too  brief 

For  me  to  hope  to  wipe  away 

The  memory  of  my  sinful  May !  " 

And  Friar  Jerome  was  full  of  grief 

That  April  evening,  as  he  lay 

On  the  straw  pallet  in  his  cell. 

He  scarcely  heard  the  curfew-bell 

Si 


82     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

Calling  the  brotherhood  to  prayer ; 
But  he  arose,  for  't  was  his  care 
Nightly  to  feed  the  hungry  poor 
That  crowded  to  the  Convent  door. 

His  choicest  duty  it  had  been : 
But  this  one  night  it  weighed  him  down. 
"  What  work  for  an  immortal  soul, 
To  feed  and  clothe  some  lazy  clown  ? 
Is  there  no  action  worth  my  mood, 
No  deed  of  daring,  high  and  pure, 
That  shall,  when  I  am  dead,  endure, 
A  well-spring  of  perpetual  good  ? " 

And  straight  he  thought  of  those  great  tomes 
With  clamps  of  gold  —  the  Convent's  boast  — 
How  they  endured,  while  kings  and  realms 
Passed  into  darkness  and  were  lost ; 
How  they  had  stood  from  age  to  age, 
Clad  in  their  yellow  vellum-mail, 
'Gainst  which  the  Paynim's  godless  rage, 
The  Vandal's  fire,  could  naught  avail : 
Though  heathen  sword-blows  fell  like  hail, 
Though  cities  ran  with  Christian  blood, 
Imperishable  they  had  stood  ! 
They  did  not  seem  like  books  to  him, 
But  Heroes,  Martyrs,  Saints  —  themselves 
The  things  they  told  of,  not  mere  books 
Ranged  grimly  on  the  oaken  shelves. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     83 

To  those  dim  alcoves,  far  withdrawn, 
He  turned  with  measured  steps  and  slow, 
Trimming  his  lantern  as  he  went ; 
And  there,  among  the  shadows,  bent 
Above  one  ponderous  folio, 
With  whose  miraculous  text  were  blent 
Seraphic  faces  :  Angels,  crowned 
With  rings  of  melting  amethyst ; 
Mute,  patient  Martyrs,  cruelly  bound 
To  blazing  fagots  ;  here  and  there, 
Some  bold,  serene  Evangelist, 
Or  Mary  in  her  sunny  hair ; 
And  here  and  there  from  out  the  words 
A  brilliant  tropic  bird  took  flight ; 
And  through  the  margins  many  a  vine 
Went  wandering  —  roses,  red  and  white, 
Tulip,  wind-flower,  and  columbine 
Blossomed.     To  his  believing  mind 
These  things  were  real,  and  the  wind, 
Blown  through  the  mullioned  window,  took 
Scent  from  the  lilies  in  the  book. 

"  Santa  Maria !  "  cried  Friar  Jerome, 
"  Whatever  man  illumined  this, 
Though  he  were  steeped  heart-deep  in  sin, 
Was  worthy  of  unending  bliss, 
And  no  doubt  hath  it !     Ah  !  dear  Lord, 
Might  I  so  beautify  Thy  Word  ! 
What  sacristan,  the  convents  through, 


84     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

Transcribes  with  such  precision  ?  who 
Does  such  initials  as  I  do  ? 
Lo  !  I  will  gird  me  to  this  work, 
And  save  me,  ere  the  one  chance  slips. 
On  smooth,  clean  parchment  I  '11  engross 
The  Prophet's  fell  Apocalypse ; 
And  as  I  write  from  day  to  day, 
Perchance  my  sins  will  pass  away." 

So  Friar  Jerome  began  his  Book. 
From  break  of  dawn  till  curfew-chime 
He  bent  above  the  lengthening  page, 
Like  some  rapt  poet  o'er  his  rhyme. 
Ke  scarcely  paused  to  te.ll  his  beads, 
Except  at  night ;  and  then  he  lay 
And  tossed,  unrestful,  on  the  straw, 
Impatient  for  the  coming  day  — 
Working  like  one  who  feels,  perchance, 
That,  ere  the  longed-for  goal  be  won, 
Ere  Beauty  bare  her  perfect  breast, 
Black  Death  may  pluck  him  from  the  sun. 
At  intervals  the  busy  brook, 
Turning  the  mill-wheel,  caught  his  ear ; 
And  through  the  grating  of  the  cell 
He  saw  the  honeysuckles  peer, 
And  knew  't  was  summer,  that  the  sheep 
In  fragrant  pastures  lay  asleep, 
And  felt,  that,  somehow,  God  was  near. 
In  his  green  pulpit  on  the  elm, 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     85 

The  robin,  abbot  of  that  wood, 

Held  forth  by  times  ;  and  Friar  Jerome 

Listened,  and  smiled,  and  understood. 

While  summer  wrapped  the  blissful  land 
What  joy  it  was  to  labor  so, 
To  see  the  long-tressed  Angels  grow 
Beneath  the  cunning  of  his  hand, 
Vignette  and  tail-piece  subtly  wrought ! 
And  little  recked  he  of  the  poor 
That  missed  him  at  the  Convent  door ; 
Or,  thinking  of  them,  put  the  thought 
Aside.     "  I  feed  the  souls  of  men 
Henceforth,  and  not  their  bodies !  " —  yet 
Their  sharp,  pinched  features,  now  and  then, 
Stole  in  between  him  and  his  Book, 
And  filled  him  with  a  vague  regret. 

Now  on  that  region  fell  a  blight : 
The  grain  grew  cankered  in  its  sheath ; 
And  from  the  verdurous  uplands  rolled 
A  sultry  vapor  fraught  with  death  — 
A  poisonous  mist,  that,  like  a  pall, 
Hung  black  and  stagnant  over  all. 
Then  came  the  sickness  —  the  malign, 
Green-spotted  terror  called  the  Pest, 
That  took  the  light  from  loving  eyes, 
And  made  the  young  bride's  gentle  breast 
A  fatal  pillow.     Ah  !  the  woe, 


86     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

The  crime,  the  madness  that  befell ! 
In  one  short  night  that  vale  became 
More  foul  than  Dante's  inmost  hell. 
Men  cursed  their  wives ;  and  mothers  left 
Their  nursing  babes  alone  to  die, 
And  wantoned,  singing,  through  the  streets, 
With  shameless  brow  and  frenzied  eye  ; 
And  senseless  clowns,  not  fearing  God  — 
Such  power  the  spotted  fever  had  — 
Razed  Cragwood  Castle  on  the  hill, 
Pillaged  the  wine-bins,  and  went  mad. 
And  evermore  that  dreadful  pall 
Of  mist  hung  stagnant  over  all : 
By  day,  a  sickly  light  broke  through 
The  heated  fog,  on  town  and  field ; 
By  night,  the  moon,  in  anger,  turned 
Against  the  earth  its  mottled  shield. 

Then  from  the  Convent,  two  and  two, 
The  Prior  chanting  at  their  head, 
The  monks  went  forth  to  shrive  the  sick, 
And  give  the  hungry  grave  its  dead  — 
Only  Jerome,  he  went  not  forth, 
But  muttered  in  his  dusty  nook, 
"  Let  come  what  will,  I  must  illume 
The  last  ten  pages  of  my  Book  !  " 
He  drew  his  stool  before  the  desk, 
And  sat  him  down,  distraught  and  wan, 
To  paint  his  daring  masterpiece, 
The  stately  figure  of  Saint  John. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     87 

He  sketched  the  head  with  pious  care, 
Laid  in  the  tint,  when,  powers  of  Grace ! 
He  found  a  grinning  Death's-head  there, 
And  not  the  grand  Apostle's  face  ! 

Then  up  he  rose  with  one  long  cry : 
"  'T  is  Satan's  self  does  this,"  cried  he, 
"  Because  I  shut  and  barred  my  heart 
When  Thou  didst  loudest  call  to  me ! 

0  Lord,  Thou  know'st  the  thoughts  of  men, 
Thou  know'st  that  I  did  yearn  to  make 
Thy  Word  more  lovely  to  the  eyes 

Of  sinful  souls,  for  Christ  his  sake  ! 
Nathless,  I  leave  the  task  undone  : 

1  give  up  all  to  follow  Thee  — 
Even  like  him  who  gave  his  nets 
To  winds  and  waves  by  Galilee ! " 

Which  said,  he  closed  the  precious  Book 
In  silence,  with  a  reverent  hand ; 
And  drawing  his  cowl  about  his  face 
Went  forth  into  the  stricken  land. 
And  there  was  joy  in  Heaven  that  day  — 
More  joy  o'er  this  forlorn  old  friar 
Than  over  fifty  sinless  men 
Who  never  struggled  with  desire  ! 

What  deeds  he  did  in  that  dark  town, 
What  hearts  he  soothed  with  anguish  torn, 


88     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

What  weary  ways  of  woe  he  trod, 
Are  written  in  the  Book  of  God, 
And  shall  be  read  at  Judgment  Morn. 
The  weeks  crept  on,  when,  one  still  day. 
God's  awful  presence  filled  the  sky, 
And  that  black  vapor  floated  by, 
And  lo !  the  sickness  passed  away. 
With  silvery  clang,  by  thorp  and  town, 
The  bells  made  merry  in  their  spires : 
O  God  !  to  think  the  Pest  is  flown  ! 
Men  kissed  each  other  on  the  street, 
And  music  piped  to  dancing  feet 
The  livelong  night,  by  roaring  fires  ! 

Then  Friar  Jerome,  a  wasted  shape — 
For  he  had  taken  the  Plague  at  last  — 
Rose  up,  and  through  the  happy  town, 
And  through  the  wintry  woodlands,  passed 
Into  the  Convent.     What  a  gloom 
Sat  brooding  in  each  desolate  room ! 
What  silence  in  the  corridor ! 
For  of  that  long,  in  numerous  train 
Which  issued  forth  a  month  before 
Scarce  twenty  had  come  back  again ! 

Counting  his  rosary  step  by  step, 
With  a  forlorn  and  vacant  air, 
Like  some  unshriven  churchyard  thing, 
The  Friar  crawled  up  the  mouldy  stair 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     89 

To  his  damp  cell,  that  he  might  look 
Once  more  on  his  beloved  Book. 

And  there  it  lay  upon  the  stand, 
Open  !  —  he  had  not  left  it  so. 
He  grasped  it,  with  a  cry  ;  for,  lo ! 
He  saw  that  some  angelic  hand, 
While  he  was  gone,  had  finished  it ! 
There  't  was  complete,  as  he  had  planned ; 
There,  at  the  end,  stood  jfinifi,  writ 
And  gilded  as  no  man  could  do  — 
Not  even  that  pious  anchoret, 
Bilfrid,  the  wonderful,  nor  yet 
The  miniatore  Ethelwold, 
Nor  Durham's  Bishop,  who  of  old 
(England  still  hoards  the  priceless  leaves) 
Did  the  Four  Gospels  all  in  gold. 
And  Friar  Jerome  nor  spoke  nor  stirred, 
But,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  word, 
He  passed  from  sin  and  want  and  scorn ; 
And  suddenly  the  chapel-bells 
Rang  in  the  holy  Christmas-Morn. 

In  those  wild  wars  which  racked  the  land 
Since  then,  and  kingdoms  rent  in  twain, 
The  Friar's  Beautiful  Book  was  lost  — 
That  miracle  of  hand  and  brain  : 
Yet,  though  its  leaves  were  torn  and  tossed, 
The  volume  was  not  writ  in  vain ! 


9°  MIANTOWONA 

MIANTOWONA 


LONG  ere  the  Pale  Face 

Crossed  the  Great  Water, 

Miantowona 

Passed,  with  her  beauty, 

Into  a  legend 

Pure  as  a  wild-flower 

Found  in  a  broken 

Ledge  by  the  seaside. 

Let  us  revere  them  — 
These  wildwood  legends, 
Born  of  the  camp-fire. 
Let  them  be  handed 
Down  to  our  children  — 
Richest  of  heirlooms. 
No  land  may  claim  them : 
They  are  ours  only, 
Like  our  grand  rivers, 
Like  our  vast  prairies, 
Like  our  dead  heroes. 

ii 

In  the  pine-forest, 
Guarded  by  shadows, 


MIANTOWONA  91 

Lieth  the  haunted 
Pond  of  the  Red  Men. 
Ringed  by  the  emerald 
Mountains,  it  lies  there 
Like  an  untarnished 
Buckler  of  silver, 
Dropped  in  that  valley 
By  the  Great  Spirit ! 
Weird  are  the  figures 
Traced  on  its  margins  — 
Vine-work  and  leaf-work, 
Down-drooping  fuchsias, 
Knots  of  sword-grasses, 
Moonlight  and  starlight, 
Clouds  scudding  northward. 
Sometimes  an  eagle 
Flutters  across  it ; 
Sometimes  a  single 
Star  on  its  bosom 
Nestles  till  morning. 

Far  in  the  ages, 

Miantowona, 

Rose  of  the  Hurons, 

Came  to  these  waters. 

Where  the  dank  greensward 

Slopes  to  the  pebbles, 

Miantowona 

Sat  in  her  anguish. 


92  MIANTOWONA 

Ice  to  her  maidens, 
Ice  to  the  chieftains, 
Fire  to  her  lover ! 
Here  he  had  won  her, 
Here  they  had  parted, 
Here  could  her  tears  flow. 
With  unwet  eyelash, 
Miantowona 
Nursed  her  old  father, 
Gray-eyed  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Soothed  his  complainings, 
Smiled  when  he  chid  her 
Vaguely  for  nothing  — 
He  was  so  weak  now, 
Like  a  shrunk  cedar 
White  with  the  hoar-frost. 
Sometimes  she  gently 
Linked  arms  with  maidens, 
Joined  in  their  dances  : 
Not  with  her  people, 
Not  in  the  wigwam, 
Wept  for  her  lover. 

Ah !  who  was  like  him  ? 
Fleet  as  an  arrow, 
Strong  as  a  bison, 
Lithe  as  a  panther, 
Soft  as  the  south-wind, 


MIANTOWONA  93 

Who  was  like  Wawah  ? 
There  is  one  other 
Stronger  and  fleeter, 
Bearing  no  wampum, 
Wearing  no  war-paint, 
Ruler  of  councils, 
Chief  of  the  war-path  — 
Who  can  gainsay  him, 
Who  can -defy  him  ? 
His  is  the  lightning, 
His  is  the  whirlwind, 
Let  us  be  humble, 
We  are  but  ashes  — 
T  is  the  Great  Spirit ! 

Ever  at  nightfall 
Miantowona 
Strayed  from  the  lodges, 
Passed  through  the  shadows 
Into  the  forest : 
There  by  the  pond-side 
Spread  her  black  tresses 
Over  her  forehead. 
Sad  is  the  loon's  cry 
Heard  in  the  twilight ; 
Sad  is  the  night- wind, 
Moaning  and  moaning; 
Sadder  the  stifled 
Sob  of  a  widow. 


94  MIANTOWONA 

Low  on  the  pebbles 
Murmured  the  water : 
Often  she  fancied 
It  was  young  Wawah 
Playing  the  reed-flute. 
Sometimes  a  dry  branch 
Snapped  in  the  forest : 
Then  she  rose,  startled, 
Ruddy  as  sunrise, 
Warm  for  his  coming ! 
But  when  he  came  not, 
Back  through  the  darkness, 
Half  broken-hearted, 
Miantowona 
Went  to  her  people. 

When  an  old  oak  dies, 
First  't  is  the  tree-tops, 
Then  the  low  branches, 
Then  the  gaunt  stem  goes  : 
So  fell  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Chief  of  the  chieftains. 

Miantowona 
Wept  not,  but  softly 
Closed  the  sad  eyelids ; 
With  her  own  fingers 


MIANTOWONA  95 

Fastened  the  deer-skin 
Over  his  shoulders ; 
Then  laid  beside  him 
Ash-bow  and  arrows, 
Pipe-bowl  and  wampum, 
Dried  corn  and  bear-meat  — 
All  that  was  needful 
On  the  long  journey. 
Thus  old  Tawanda 
Went  to  the  hunting 
Grounds  of  the  Red  Man. 
Then,  as  the  dirges 
Rose  from  the  village, 
Miantowona 

Stole  from  the  mourners, 
Stole  through  the  cornfields, 
Passed  like  a  phantom 
Into  the  shadows 
Through  the  pine  forest. 

One  who  had  watched  her  — 
It  was  Nahoho, 
Loving  her  vainly  — 
Saw,  as  she  passed  him, 
That  in  her  features 
Made  his  stout  heart  quail. 
He  could  but  follow. 
Quick  were  her  footsteps, 


96  MIANTOWONA 

Light  as  a  snowflake, 
Leaving  no  traces 
On  the  white  clover. 

Like  a  trained  runner, 
Winner  of  prizes, 
Into  the  woodlands 
Plunged  the  young  chieftain. 
Once  he  abruptly 
Halted,  and  listened ; 
Then  he  sped  forward 
Faster  and  faster 
Toward  the  bright  water. 
Breathless  he  reached  it 
Why  did  he  crouch  then, 
Stark  as  a  statue  ? 
What  did  he  see  there 
Could  so  appall  him  ? 
Only  a  circle 
Swiftly  expanding, 
Fading  before  him ; 
But,  as  he  watched  it, 
Up  from  the  centre, 
Slowly,  superbly, 
Rose  a  Pond-Lily. 

One  cry  of  wonder, 
Shrill  as  the  loon's  call, 
Rang  through  the  forest, 


MIANTOWONA  97 

Startling  the  silence, 
Startling  the  mourners 
Chanting  the  death-song. 
Forth  from  the  village, 
Flocking  together 
Came  all  the  Hurons  — 
Striplings  and  warriors, 
Maidens  and  old  men, 
Squaws  with  pappooses. 
No  word  was  spoken : 
There  stood  the  Hurons 
On  the  dank  greensward, 
With  their  swart  faces 
Bowed  in  the  twilight. 
What  did  they  see  there  ? 
Only  a  Lily 
Rocked  on  the  azure 
Breast  of  the  water. 

Then  they  turned  sadly 

One  to  another, 

Tenderly  murmuring, 
"  Miantowona !  " 

Soft  as  the  dew  falls 

Down  through  the  midnight, 

Cleaving  the  starlight, 

Echo  repeated, 
"  Miantowona ! " 


98  THE  GUERDON 


THE  GUERDON 

Vedder,  this  legend,  if  it  had  its  due, 
Would  not  be  sung  by  me,  but  told  by  you 
In  colors  such  as  Tintoretto  knew. 

SOOTHED  by  the  fountain's  drowsy  murmuring  — 
Or  was  it  by  the  west-wind's  indolent  wing  ?  — 
The  grim  court-poet  fell  asleep  one  day 
In  the  lords'  chamber,  when  chance  brought  that 

way 

The  Princess  Margaret  with  a  merry  train 
Of  damozels  and  ladies  —  flippant,  vain 
Court-butterflies  —  midst  whom  fair  Margaret 
Swayed  like  a  rathe  and  slender  lily  set 
In  rustling  leaves,  for  all  her  drapery 
Was  green  and  gold,  and  lovely  as  could  be. 

Midway  in  hall  the  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Filling  a  listless  Naiad's  outstretched  shell 
And  weaving  rainbows  in  the  shifting  light. 
Upon  the  carven  friezes,  left  and  right, 
Was  pictured  Pan  asleep  beside  his  reed. 
In  this  place  all  things  seemed  asleep,  indeed  — 
The  hook-billed  parrot  on  his  pendent  ring, 
Sitting  high-shouldered,  half  forgot  to  swing; 
The  wind  scarce  stirred  the  hangings  at  the  door, 
And  from  the  silken  arras  evermore 
Yawned  drowsy  dwarfs  with  satyr's  face  and  hoof. 


THE  GUERDON  99 

A  forest  of  gold  pillars  propped  the  roof, 
And  like  one  slim  gold  pillar  overthrown, 
The  sunlight  through  a  great  stained  window  shone 
And  lay  across  the  body  of  Alain. 
You  would  have  thought,  perchance,  the  man  was 

slain  : 

As  if  the  checkered  column  in  its  fall 
Had  caught  and  crushed  him,  he  lay  dead  to  all. 
The  parrot's  gray  bead  eye  as  good  as  said, 
Unclosing  viciously,  "  The  clown  is  dead." 
A  dragon-fly  in  narrowing  circles  neared, 
And  lit,  secure,  upon  the  dead  man's  beard, 
Then  spread  its  iris  vans  in  quick  dismay, 
And  into  the  blue  summer  sped  away ! 

Little  was  his  of  outward  grace  to  win 
The  eyes  of  maids,  but  white  the  soul  within. 
Misshaped,  and  hideous  to  look  upon 
Was  this  man,  dreaming  in  the  noontide  sun, 
With  sunken  eyes  and  winter-whitened  hair 
And  sallow  cheeks  deep  seamed  with  thought  and 

care. 

And  so  the  laughing  ladies  of  the  court, 
Coming  upon  him  suddenly,  stopped  short, 
And  shrunk  together  with  a  nameless  dread  : 
Some,  but  fear  held  them,  would  have  turned  and 

fled, 

Seeing  the  uncouth  figure  lying  there. 
But  Princess  Margaret,  with  her  heavy  hair 


loo  THE  GUERDON 

From  out  its  diamond  fillet  rippling  down, 
Slipped  from  the  group,  and   plucking  back  her 

gown 

With  white  left  hand,  stole  softly  to  his  side  — 
The  fair  court  gossips  staring,  curious-eyed, 
Half  mockingly.     A  little  while  she  stood, 
Finger  on  lip ;  then,  with  the  agile  blood 
Climbing  her  cheek,  and  silken  lashes  wet  — 
She  scarce  knew  what  vague  pity  or  regret 
Wet  them  —  she  stooped,  and  for  a  moment's  space 
Her  golden  tresses  touched  the  sleeper's  face. 
Then  she  stood  straight,  as  lily  on  its  stem, 
But  hearing  her  ladies  titter,  turned  on  them 
Her  great  queen's  eyes,  grown  black  with  scornful 

frown  — 

Great  eyes  that  looked  the  shallow  women  down. 
"  Nay,  not  for  love  " — one  rosy  palm  she  laid 
Softly  against  her  bosom  —  "  as  I  'm  a  maid  ! 
Full  well  I  know  what  cruel  things  you  say 
Of  this  and  that,  but  hold  your  peace  to-day. 
I  pray  you  think  no  evil  thing  of  this. 
Nay,  not  for  love's  sake  did  I  give  the  kiss, 
Not  for  his  beauty  who 's  nor  fair  nor  young, 
But   for  the   songs  which  those   mute   lips   have 

sung." 

That  was  a  right  brave  princess,  one,  I  hold, 
Worthy  to  wear  a  crown  of  beaten  gold. 


TITA'S  TEARS  101 

TITA'S  TEARS 

A  FANTASY 

A  CERTAIN  man  of  Ischia  —  it  is  thus 
The  story  runs  —  one  Lydus  Claudius, 
After  a  life  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Passed  suddenly  from  out  the  sphere  of  men 
Into  the  sphere  of  phantoms. 

In  a  vale 

Where  shoals  of  spirits  against  the  moonlight  pale 
Surged  ever  upward,  in  a  wan-lit  place 
Near  heaven,  he  met  a  Presence  face  to  face  — 
A  figure  like  a  carving  on  a  spire, 
Shrouded  in  wings  and  with  a  fillet  of  fire 
About  the  brows  —  who  stayed  him  there,  and  said  : 
"  This  the  gods  grant  to  thee,  O  newly  dead ! 
Whatever  thing  on  earth  thou  boldest  dear 
Shall,  at  thy  bidding,  be  transported  here, 
Save  wife  or  child,  or  any  living  thing." 
Then  straightway  Claudius  fell  to  wondering 
What  he  should  wish  for.     Having  heaven  at  hand, 
His  wants  were  few,  as  you  can  understand ; 
Riches  and  titles,  matters  dear  to  us, 
To  him,  of  course,  were  now  superfluous. 
But  Tita,  small  brown  Tita,  his  young  wife, 
A  two  weeks'  bride  when  he  took  leave  of  life, 
What  would  become  of  her  without  his  care  ? 


102  TITA'S  TEARS 

Tita,  so  rich,  so  thoughtless,  and  so  fair ! 

At  present  crushed  with  sorrow,  to  be  sure  — 

But  by  and  by  ?     What  earthly  griefs  endure  ? 

They  pass  like  joys.     A  year,  three  years  at  most, 

And  would  she  mourn  her  lord,  so  quickly  lost  ? 

With  fine,  prophetic  ear,  he  heard  afar 

The  tinkling  of  some  horrible  guitar 

Under  her  balcony.     "  Such  thing  could  be," 

Sighed  Claudius  ;  "  I  would  she  were  with  me, 

Safe  from  all  harm."     But  as  that  wish  was  vain, 

He  let  it  drift  from  out  his  troubled  brain 

(His  highly  trained  austerity  was  such 

That  self-denial  never  cost  him  much), 

And  strove  to  think  what  object  he  might  name 

Most  closely  linked  with  the  bereaved  dame. 

Her  wedding  ring  ?  —  't  would    be    too   small    to 

wear; 

Perhaps  a  ringlet  of  her  raven  hair  ? 
If  not,  her  portrait,  done  in  cameo, 
Or  on  a  background  of  pale  gold  ?     But  no, 
Such  trifles  jarred  with  his  severity. 
At  last  he  thought :  "  The  thing  most  meet  for  me 
Would  be  that  antique  flask  wherein  my  bride 
Let  fall  her  heavy  tears  the  night  I  died." 
(It  was  a  custom  of  that  simple  day 
To  have  one's  tears  sealed  up  and  laid  away, 
As  everlasting  tokens  of  regret  — 
They  find  the  bottles  in  Greek  ruins  yet.) 
For  this  he  wished,  then. 


A  BALLAD  103 

Swifter  than  a  thought 

The  Presence  vanished,  and  the  flask  was  brought  — 
Slender,  bell-mouthed,  and  painted  all  around 
With  jet-black  tulips  on  a  saffron  ground ; 
A  tiny  jar,  of  porcelain  if  you  will, 
Which  twenty  tears  would  rather  more  than  fill. 
With  careful  ringers  Claudius  broke  the  seal 
When,  suddenly,  a  well-known  merry  peal 
Of  laughter  leapt  from  out  the  vial's  throat, 
And  died,  as  dies  the  wood-bird's  distant  note. 
Claudius  stared  ;  then,  struck  with  strangest  fears, 
Reversed  the  flask  — 

Alas,  for  Tita's  tears ! 


A  BALLAD 

A.  D.  1700 

BRETAGNE  had  not  her  peer.  In  the  Province  far 
or  near 

There  were  never  such  brown  tresses,  such  a  fault 
less  hand  ; 

She  had  youth,  and  she  had  gold,  she  had  jewels 
all  untold, 

And  many  a  lover  bold  wooed  the  Lady  of  the 
Land. 


104  A  BALLAD 

But  she,  with  queenliest  grace,  bent  low  her  pallid 

face, 
And  "  Woo  me  not,  for  Jesus'  sake,  fair  gentlemen," 

she  said. 
If  they  wooed,  then  —  with  a  frown  she  would  strike 

their  passion  down  : 
She  might  have  wed  a  crown  to  the  ringlets  on  her 

head. 

From  the  dizzy  castle-tips,  hour  by  hour  she  watched 
the  ships, 

Like  sheeted  phantoms  coming  and  going  ever 
more, 

While  the  twilight  settled  down  on  the  sleepy  sea 
port  town, 

On  the  gables  peaked  and  brown,  that  had  sheltered 
kings  of  yore. 

Dusky  belts  of  cedar-wood  partly  clasped  the  widen 
ing  flood ; 

Like  a  knot  of  daisies  lay  the  hamlets  on  the  hill ; 

In  the  hostelry  below  sparks  of  light  would  come 
and  go, 

And  faint  voices,  strangely  low,  from  the  garrulous 
old  mill. 

Here  the  land  in  grassy  swells  gently  broke ;  there 

sunk  in  dells 
With  mosses  green  and  purple,  and  prongs  of  rock 

and  peat ; 


A  BALLAD  105 

Here,  in  statue-like  repose,  an  old  wrinkled  moun 
tain  rose, 

With  its  hoary  head  in  snows,  and  wild  roses  at  its 
feet. 

And  so  oft  she  sat  alone  in  the  turret  of  gray  stone, 
And  looked  across  the  moorland,  so  woful,  to  the 

sea, 
That  there  grew  a  village-cry,  how  her  cheek  did 

lose  its  dye, 
As  a  ship,  once,  sailing  by,  faded  on  the  sapphire 

lea. 

Her  few  walks  led  all  one  way,  and  all  ended  at 

the  gray 
And  ragged,  jagged  rocks  that  fringe  the  lonely 

beach ; 
There  she  would  stand,  the  Sweet !  with  the  white 

surf  at  her  feet, 
While  above  her  wheeled  the  fleet  sparrow-hawk 

with  startling  screech. 

And  she  ever  loved  the  sea,  with  its  haunting  mys 
tery, 

Its  whispering  weird  voices,  its  never-ceasing  roar : 

And  't  was  well  that,  when  she  died,  they  made  her 
a  grave  beside 

The  blue  pulses  of  the  tide,  by  the  towers  of  Cas- 
telnore. 


106  A  BALLAD 

Now,  one  chill  November  dawn,  many  russet  au 
tumns  gone, 

A  strange  ship  with  folded  wings  lay  idly  off  the 
lea; 

It  had  lain  throughout  the  night  with  its  wings  of 
murky  white 

Folded,  after  weary  flight  —  the  worn  nursling  of 
the  sea. 

Crowds  of  peasants  flocked  the  sands ;  there  were 

tears  and  clasping  hands ; 
And  a  sailor  from   the  ship  stalked   through  the 

church-yard  gate. 
Then  amid  the  grass  that  crept,  fading,  over  her 

who  slept, 
How  he  hid  his  face  and  wept,  crying,  Late,  too 

late  !  too  late  ! 

And  they  called  her  cold.  God  knows.  .  .  .  Under 
neath  the  winter  snows 

The  invisible  hearts  of  flowers  grow  ripe  for  blos 
soming  ! 

And  the  lives  that  look  so  cold,  if  their  stories 
could  be  told, 

Would  seem  cast  in  gentler  mould,  would  seem  full 
of  love  and  spring. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  107 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 


LOOKING  at  Fra  Gervasio, 
Wrinkled  and  withered  and  old  and  gray, 
A  dry  Franciscan  from  crown  to  toe, 
You  would  never  imagine,  by  any  chance, 
That,  in  the  convent  garden  one  day, 
He  spun  this  thread  of  golden  romance. 

Romance  to  me,  but  to  him,  indeed, 
'T  was  a  matter  that  did  not  hold  a  doubt ; 
A  miracle,  nothing  more  nor  less. 
Did  I  think  it  strange  that,  in  our  need, 
Leaning  from  Heaven  to  our  distress, 
The  Virgin  brought  such  things  about  — 
Gave    mute    things    speech,    made    dead    things 

move  ?  — 

Mother  of  Mercy,  Lady  of  Love  ! 
Besides,  I  might,  if  I  wished,  behold 
The  Bambino's  self  in  his  cloth  of  gold 
And  silver  tissue,  lying  in  state 
In  the  Sacristy.     Would  the  signor  wait  ? 

Whoever  will  go  to  Rome  may  see, 
In  the  chapel  of  the  Sacristy 
Of  Ara-Cceli,  the  Sainted  Child  — 


lo8  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Garnished  from  throat  to  foot  with  rings 

And  brooches  and  precious  offerings, 

And  its  little  nose  kissed  quite  away 

By  dying  lips.     At  Epiphany, 

If  the  holy  winter  day  prove  mild, 

It  is  shown  to  the  wondering,  gaping  crowd 

On  the  church's  steps  —  held  high  aloft  — 

While  every  sinful  head  is  bowed, 

And  the  music  plays,  and  the  censers'  soft 

White  breath  ascends  like  silent  prayer. 

Many  a  beggar  kneeling  there, 
Tattered  and  hungry,  without  a  home, 
Would  not  envy  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
If  he,  the  beggar,  had  half  the  care 
Bestowed  on  him  that  falls  to  the  share 
Of  yonder  Image  —  for  you  must  know 
It  has  its  minions  to  come  and  go, 
Its  perfumed  chamber,  remote  and  still, 
Its  silken  couch,  and  its  jewelled  throne, 
And  a  special  carriage  of  its  own 
To  take  the  air  in,  when  it  will ; 
And  though  it  may  neither  drink  nor  eat, 
By  a  nod  to  its  ghostly  seneschal 
It  could  have  of  the  choicest  wine  and  meat. 
Often  some  princess,  brown  and  tall, 
Comes,  and  unclasping  from  her  arm 
The  glittering  bracelet,  leaves  it,  warm 
With  her  throbbing  pulse,  at  the  Baby's  feet. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  109 

Ah,  he  is  loved  by  high  and  low, 

Adored  alike  by  simple  and  wise. 

The  people  kneel  to  him  in  the  street. 

What  a  felicitous  lot  is  his  — 

To  lie  in  the  light  of  ladies'  eyes, 

Petted  and  pampered,  and  never  to  know 

The  want  of  a  dozen  soldi  or  so  ! 

And  what  does  he  do  for  all  of  this  ? 

What  does  the  little  Bambino  do  ? 

It  cures  the  sick,  and,  in  fact,  't  is  said 

Can  almost  bring  life  back  to  the  dead. 

Who  doubts  it  ?     Not  Fra  Gervasio. 

When  one  falls  ill,  it  is  left  alone 

For  a  while  with  one  —  and  the  fever 's  gone  ! 

At  least,  't  was  once  so  ;  but  to-day 
It  is  never  permitted,  unattended 
By  monk  or  priest,  to  work  its  lure 
At  sick  folks'  beds  —  all  that  was  ended 
By  one  poor  soul  whose  feeble  clay 
Satan  tempted  and  made  secure. 

It  was  touching  this  very  point  the  friar 
Told  me  the  legend,  that  afternoon, 
In  the  cloisteral  garden  all  on  fire 
With  scarlet  poppies  and  golden  stalks. 
Here  and  there  on  the  sunny  walks, 
Startled  by  some  slight  sound  we  made, 
A  lizard,  awaking  from  its  swoon, 


I  io  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Shot  like  an  arrow  into  the  shade. 

I  can  hear  the  fountain's  languorous  tune, 

(How  it  comes  back,  that  hour  in  June 

When  just  to  exist  was  joy  enough !) 

I  can  see  the  olives,  silvery-gray, 

The  carven  masonry  rich  with  stains, 

The  gothic  windows  with  lead-set  panes, 

The  flag-paved  cortile,  the  convent  grates, 

And  Fra  Gervasio  holding  his  snuff 

In  a  squirrel-like  meditative  way 

'Twixt  finger  and  thumb.     But  the  Legend  waits. 

ii 

It  was  long  ago  (so  long  ago 

That  Fra  Gervasio  did  not  know 

What  year  of  our  Lord),  there  came  to  Rome 

Across  the  Campagna's  flaming  red, 

A  certain  Filippo  and  his  wife  — 

Peasants,  and  very  newly  wed. 

In  the  happy  spring  and  blossom  of  life, 

When  the  light  heart  chirrups  to  lovers'  calls, 

These  two,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  come 

And  built  their  nest  'gainst  the  city's  walls. 

He,  with  his  scanty  garden-plots, 
Raised  flowers  and  fruit  for  the  market-place, 
Where  she,  with  her  pensile,  flower-like  face  — 
Own  sister  to  her  forget-me-nots  — 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  in 

Played  merchant :  and  so  they  thrived  apace, 
In  humble  content,  with  humble  cares, 
And  modest  longings,  till,  unawares, 
Sorrow  crept  on  them  ;  for  to  their  nest 
Had  come  no  little  ones,  and  at  last 
When  six  or  seven  summers  had  passed, 
Seeing  no  baby  at  her  breast, 
The  husband  brooded,  and  then  grew  cold ; 
Scolded  and  fretted  over  this  — 
Who  would  tend  them  when  they  were  old, 
And  palsied,  may  be,  sitting  alone, 
Hungry,  beside  the  cold  hearth-stone  ? 
Not  to  have  children,  like  the  rest ! 
It  cankered  the  very  heart  of  bliss. 

Then  he  fell  into  indolent  ways, 
Neglecting  the  garden  for  days  and  days, 
Playing  at  mora,  drinking  wine, 
With  this  and  that  one  —  letting  the  vine 
Run  riot  and  die  for  want  of  care, 
And  the  choke-weeds  gather ;  for  it  was  spring, 
When  everything  needed  nurturing. 
But  he  would  drowse  for  hours  in  the  sun, 
Or  sit  on  the  broken  step  by  the  shed, 
Like  a  man  whose  honest  toil  is  done, 
Sullen,  with  never  a  word  to  spare, 
Or  a  word  that  were  better  all  unsaid. 
And  Nina,  so  light  of  thought  before, 
Singing  about  the  cottage  door 


112          THE   LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELI 

In  her  mountain  dialect  —  sang  no  more ; 

But  came  and  went,  sad-faced  and  shy, 

Wishing,  at  times,  that  she  might  die, 

Brooding  and  fretting  in  her  turn. 

Often,  in  passing  along  the  street, 

Her  basket  of  flowers  poised,  peasant-wise, 

On  a  lustrous  braided  coil  of  her  hair, 

She  would  halt,  and  her  dusky  cheek  would  burn 

Like  a  poppy,  beholding  at  her  feet 

Some  stray  little  urchin,  dirty  and  bare. 

And  sudden  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes 

That  the  tiny  waif  was  not  her  own, 

To  fondle,  and  kiss,  and  teach  to  pray. 

Then  she  passed  onward,  making  moan. 

Sometimes  she  would  stand  in  the  sunny  square, 

Like  a  slim  bronze  statue  of  Despair, 

Watching  the  children  at  their  play. 

In  the  broad  piazza,  was  a  shrine, 
With  Our  Lady  holding  on  her  knee 
A  small  nude  waxen  effigy. 
Nina  passed  by  it  every  day, 
And  morn  and  even,  in  rain  or  shine, 
Repeated  an  ave  there.     "  Divine 
Mother,"  she  'd  cry,  as  she  turned  away, 
"  Sitting  in  paradise,  undefiled, 
Oh,  have  pity  on  my  distress !  " 
Then  glancing  back  at  the  rosy  Child, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  113 

She  would  cry  to  it,  in  her  helplessness, 
"  Pray  her  to  send  the  like  to  me  ! " 

Now  once  as  she  knelt  before  the  saint, 
Lifting  her  hands  in  silent  pain, 
She  paled,  and  her  heavy  heart  grew  faint 
At  a  thought  which  flashed  across  her  brain  — 
The  blinding  thought  that,  perhaps  if  she 
Had  lived  in  the  world's  miraculous  morn 
God  might  have  chosen  her  to  be 
The  mother  —  Oh,  heavenly  ecstasy  !  — 
Of  the  little  babe  in  the  manger  born ! 
She,  too,  was  a  peasant  girl,  like  her, 
The  wife  of  the  lowly  carpenter ! 
Like  Joseph's  wife,  a  peasant  girl ! 

Her  strange  little  head  was  in  a  whirl 
As  she  rose  from  her  knees  to  wander  home, 
Leaving  her  basket  at  the  shrine ; 
So  dazed  was  she,  she  scarcely  knew 
The  old  familiar  streets  of  Rome, 
Nor  whither  she  wished  to  go,  in  fine ; 
But  wandered  on,  now  crept,  now  flew, 
In  the  gathering  twilight,  till  she  came 
Breathless,  bereft  of  sense  and  sight, 
To  the  gloomy  Arch  of  Constantine, 
And  there  they  found  her,  late  that  night, 
With  her  cheeks  like  snow  and  her  lips  like  flame  1 


114  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Many  a  time  from  day  to  day, 
She  heard,  as  if  in  a  troubled  dream, 
Footsteps  around  her,  and  some  one  saying  — 
Was  it  Filippo ?  —  "Is  she  dead ? " 
Then  it  was  some  one  near  her  praying, 
And  she  was  drifting  —  drifting  away 
From  saints  and  martyrs  in  endless  glory ! 
She  seemed  to  be  floating  down  a  stream, 
Yet  knew  she  was  lying  in  her  bed. 
The  fancy  held  her  that  she  had  died, 
And  this  was  her  soul  in  purgatory, 
Until,  one  morning,  two  holy  men 
From  the  convent  came,  and  laid  at  her  side 
The  Bambino.     Blessed  Virgin  !  then 
Nina  looked  up,  and  laughed,  and  wept, 
And  folded  it  close  to  her  heart,  and  slept. 

Slept  such  a  soft,  refreshing  sleep, 
That  when  she  awoke  her  eyes  had  taken 
The  hyaline  lustre,  dewy,  deep, 
Of  violets  when  they  first  awaken ; 
And  the  half-unravelled,  fragile  thread 
Of  life  was  knitted  together  again. 
But  she  shrunk  with  sudden,  speechless  pain, 
And  seemed  to  droop  like  a  flower,  the  day 
The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 
To  carry  the  Miracle  Child  away  1 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  115 


ill 

Ere  spring  in  the  heart  of  pansies  burned, 

Or  the  buttercup  had  loosed  its  gold, 

Nina  was  busy  as  ever  of  old 

With  fireside  cares ;  but  was  not  the  same, 

For  from  the  hour  when  she  had  turned 

To  clasp  the  Image  the  fathers  brought 

To  her  dying-bed,  a  single  thought 

Had  taken  possession  of  her  brain : 

A  purpose,  as  steady  as  the  flame 

Of  a  lamp  in  some  cathedral  crypt, 

Had  lighted  her  on  her  bed  of  pain  ; 

The  thirst  and  the  fever,  they  had  slipped 

Away  like  visions,  but  this  had  stayed  — 

To  have  the  Bambino  brought  again, 

To  have  it,  and  keep  it  for  her  own ! 

That  was  the  secret  dream  which  made 

Life  for  her  now  —  in  the  streets,  alone, 

At  night,  and  morning,  and  when  she  prayed. 

How  should  she  wrest  it  from  the  hand 
Of  the  jealous  Church  ?  How  keep  the  Child  ? 
Flee  with  it  into  some  distant  land  — 
Like  mother  Mary  from  Herod's  ire  ? 
Ah,  well,  she  knew  not ;  she  only  knew 
It  was  written  down  in  the  Book  of  Fate 


Ii6  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

That  she  should  have  her  heart's  desire, 
And  very  soon  now,  for  of  late, 
In  a  dream,  the  little  thing  had  smiled 
Up  in  her  face,  with  one  eye's  blue 
Peering  from  underneath  her  breast, 
Which  the  baby  fingers  had  softly  pressed 
Aside,  to  look  at  her !     Holy  one  ! 
But  that  should  happen  ere  all  was  done. 

Lying  dark  in  the  woman's  mind  — 
Unknown,  like  a  seed  in  fallow  ground  — 
Was  the  germ  of  a  plan,  confused  and  blind 
At  first,  but  which,  as  the  weeks  rolled  round, 
Reached  light,  and  flowered  —  a  subtile  flower, 
Deadly  as  nightshade.     In  that  same  hour 
She  sought  the  husband  and  said  to  him, 
With  crafty  tenderness  in  her  eyes 
And  treacherous  archings  of  her  brows, 
"  Filippo  mio,  thou  lov'st  me  well  ? 
Truly  ?     Then  get  thee  to  the  house 
Of  the  long-haired  Jew  Ben  Raphaim  — 
Seller  of  curious  tapestries, 
(Ah,  he  hath  everything  to  sell !) 
The  cunning  carver  of  images  — 
And  bid  him  to  carve  thee  to  the  life 
A  bambinetto  like  that  they  gave 
In  my  arms,  to  hold  me  from  the  grave 
When  the  fever  pierced  me  like  a  knife. 
Perhaps,  if  we  set  the  image  there 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  117 

By  the  Cross,  the  saints  would  hear  the  prayer 
Which  in  all  these  years  they  have  not  heard." 

Then  the  husband  went,  without  a  word, 
To  the  crowded  Ghetto ;  for  since  the  days 
Of  Nina's  illness  the  man  had  been 
A  tender  husband  —  with  lover's  ways 
Striving,  as  best  he  might,  to  wean 
The  wife  from  her  sadness,  and  to  bring 
Back  to  the  home  whence  it  had  fled 
The  happiness  of  that  laughing  spring 
When  they,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  wed. 

The  image  !     It  was  a  woman's  whim  — 
They  were  full  of  whims.     But  what  to  him 
Were  a  dozen  pieces  of  silver  spent, 
If  it  made  her  happy  ?    And  so  he  went 
To  the  house  of  the  Jew  Ben  Raphaim. 
And  the  carver  heard,  and  bowed,  and  smiled, 
And  fell  to  work  as  if  he  had  known 
The  thought  that  lay  in  the  woman's  brain, 
And  somehow  taken  it  for  his  own  : 
For  even  before  the  month  was  flown 
He  had  carved  a  figure  so  like  the  Child 
Of  Ara-Cceli,  you  'd  not  have  told, 
Had  both  been  decked  with  jewel  and  chain 
And  dressed  alike  in  a  dress  of  gold, 
Which  was  the  true  one  of  the  twain. 


n8  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-OELI 

When  Nina  beheld  it  first,  her  heart 
Stood  still  with  wonder.     The  skilful  Jew 
Had  given  the  eyes  the  tender  blue, 
And  the  cheeks  the  delicate  olive  hue, 
And  the  form  almost  the  curve  and  line 
Of  the  Image  the  good  Apostle  made 
Immortal  with  his  miraculous  art, 
What  time  the  sculptor 1  dreamed  in  the  shade 
Under  the  skies  of  Palestine. 
The  bright  new  coins  that  clinked  in  the  palm 
Of  the  carver  in  wood  were  blurred  and  dim 
Compared  with  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him 
From  the  low  sweet  brows,  so  seeming  calm  ; 
Then  he  went  his  way,  and  her  joy  broke  free, 
And  Filippo  smiled  to  hear  Nina  sing 
In  the  old,  old  fashion  —  carolling 
Like  a  very  thrush,  with  many  a  trill 
And  long-drawn,  flute-like,  honeyed  note, 
Till  the  birds  in  the  farthest  mulberry, 
Each  outstretching  its  amber  bill, 
Answered  her  with  melodious  throat. 

Thus  sped  two  days  ;  but  on  the  third 
Her  singing  ceased,  and  there  came  a  change 
As  of  death  on  Nina ;  her  talk  grew  strange, 

1  According  to  a  monastic  legend,  the  Santissimo  Bambino  was 
carved  by  a  pilgrim,  out  of  a  tree  which  grew  on  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  and  painted  by  St.  Luke  while  the  pilgrim  was  sleeping  over 
his  work. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  119 

Then  she  sunk  in  a  trance,  nor  spoke  nor  stirred ; 

And  the  husband,  wringing  his  hands  dismayed, 

Watched  by  the  bed ;  but  she  breathed  no  word 

That  night,  nor  until  the  morning  broke, 

When  she  roused  from  the  spell,  and  feebly  laid 

Her  hand  on  Filippo's  arm,  and  spoke  : 

"Quickly,  Filippo  !  get  thee  gone 

To  the  holy  fathers,  and  beg  them  send 

The  Bambino  hither  "  —  her  cheeks  were  wan 

And  her  eyes  like  coals  —  "  Oh,  go,  my  friend, 

Or  all  is  said  ! "     Through  the  morning's  gray 

Filippo  hurried,  like  one  distraught, 

To  the  monks,  and  told  his  tale ;  and  they, 

Straight  after  matins,  came  and  brought 

The  Miracle  Child,  and  went  their  way. 

Once  more  in  her  arms  was  the  Infant  laid, 
After  these  weary  months,  once  more  ! 
Yet  the  woman  seemed  like  a  thing  of  stone 
While  the  dark-robed  fathers  knelt  and  prayed ; 
But  the  instant  the  holy  friars  were  gone 
She  arose,  and  took  the  broidered  gown 
From  the  Baby  Christ,  and  the  yellow  crown 
And  the  votive  brooches  and  rings  it  wore, 
Till  the  little  figure,  so  gay  before 
In  its  princely  apparel,  stood  as  bare 
As  your  ungloved  hand.     With  tenderest  care, 
At  her  feet,  'twixt  blanket  and  counterpane. 
She  hid  the  Babe  ;  and  then,  reaching  down 


120  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

To  the  coffer  wherein  the  thing  had  lain, 
Drew  forth  Ben  Raphaim's  manikin 
In  haste,  and  dressed  it  in  robe  and  crown, 
With  lace  and  bauble  and  diamond-pin. 
This  finished,  she  turned  to  stone  again, 
And  lay  as  one  would  have  thought  quite  dead 
If  it  had  not  been  for  a  spot  of  red 
Upon  either  cheek.     At  the  close  of  day 
The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 
And  carried  the  false  bambino  away ! 

Over  the  vast  Campagna's  plain, 
At  sunset,  a  wind  began  to  blow 
(From  the  Apennines  it  came,  they  say), 
Softly  at  first,  and  then  to  grow  — 
As  the  twilight  gathered  and  hurried  by  — 
To  a  gale,  with  sudden  tumultuous  rain 
And  thunder  muttering  far  away. 
When   the   night  was   come,  from  the  blackened 

sky 

The  spear-tongued  lightning  slipped  like  a  snake, 
And  the  great  clouds  clashed,  and  seemed  to  shake 
The  earth  to  its  centre.     Then  swept  down 
Such  a  storm  as  was  never  seen  in  Rome 
By  any  one  living  in  that  day. 
Not  a  soul  dared  venture  from  his  home, 
Not  a  soul  in  all  the  crowded  town. 
Dumb  beasts  dropped  dead,  with  terror,  in  stall ; 
Great  chimney-stacks  were  overthrown, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  121 

And  about  the  streets  the  tiles  were  blown 
Like  leaves  in  autumn.     A  fearful  night, 
With  ominous  voices  in  the  air ! 
Indeed,  it  seemed  like  the  end  of  all. 
In  the  convent,  the  monks  for  very  fright 
Went  not  to  bed,  but  each  in  his  cell 
Counted  his  beads  by  the  taper's  light, 
Quaking  to  hear  the  dreadful  sounds, 
And  shrivelling  in  the  lightning's  glare. 
It  was  as  if  the  rivers  of  Hell 
Had  risen,  and  overleaped  their  bounds. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  at  the  convent  door, 
Above  the  tempest's  raving  and  roar 
Came  a  sudden  knocking !     Mother  of  Grace, 
What  desperate  wretch  was  forced  to  face 
Such  a  night  as  that  was  out-of-doors  ? 
Across  the  echoless,  stony  floors 
Into  the  windy  corridors 
The  monks  came  flocking,  and  down  the  stair, 
Silently,  glancing  each  at  each, 
As  if  they  had  lost  the  power  of  speech. 
Yes  —  it  was  some  one  knocking  there ! 
And  then  —  strange  thing !  —  untouched  by  a  soul 
The  bell  of  the  convent  'gan  to  toll ! 
It  curdled  the  blood  beneath  their  hair. 
Reaching  the  court,  the  brothers  stood 
Huddled  together,  pallid  and  mute, 
By  the  massive  door  of  iron-clamped  wood, 


122  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CGELI 

Till  one  old  monk,  more  resolute 

Than  the  others  —  a  man  of  pious  will  — 

Stepped  forth,  and  letting  his  lantern  rest 

On  the  pavement,  crouched  upon  his  breast 

And  peeped  through  a  chink  there  was  between 

The  cedar  door  and  the  sunken  sill. 

At  the  instant  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 

Seeming  to  wrap  the  world  in  flame. 

He  gave  but  a  glance,  and  straight  arose 

With  his  face  like  a  corpse's.     What  had  he  seen  ? 

Two  dripping,  little  pink-white  toes  ! 

Then,  like  a  man  gone  suddenly  wild, 

He  tugged  at  the  bolts,  flung  down  the  chain, 

And  there,  in  the  night  and  wind  and  rain  — 

Shivering,  piteous,  and  forlorn, 

And  naked  as  ever  it  was  born  — 

On  the  threshold  stood  the  SAINTED  CHILD  ! 

"  Since  then,"  said  Fra  Gervasio, 
"  We  have  never  let  the  Bambino  go 
Unwatched  —  no,  not  by  a  prince's  bed. 
Ah,  signor,  it  made  a  dreadful  stir." 
"  And  the  woman  —  Nina  —  what  of  her  ? 
Had  she  no  story? "     He  bowed  his  head, 
And  knitting  his  meagre  fingers,  so  — 
"  In  that  night  of  wind  and  wrath,"  said  he, 
"  There  was  wrought  in  Rome  a  mystery. 
What  know  I,  signor  ?     They  found  her  dead !  " 


BAGATELLE 

CORYDON 

A    PASTORAL 

SCENE  :  A  roadside  in  A  rc»dy 
SHEPHERD 

GOOD  sir,  have  you  seen  pass  this  way 
A  mischief  straight  from  market-day  ? 
You  'd  know  her  at  a  glance,  I  think ; 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  lips  are  pink ; 
She  has  a  way  of  looking  back 
Over  her  shoulder,  and,  alack  ! 
Who  gets  that  look  one  time,  good  sir, 
Has  naught  to  do  but  follow  her. 

PILGRIM 

I  have  not  seen  this  maid,  methinks, 
Though  she  that  passed  had  lips  like  pinks. 

SHEPHERD 

Or  like  two  strawberries  made  one 
By  some  sly  trick  of  dew  and  sun. 
123 


124  BAGATELLE 

PILGRIM 

A  poet! 

SHEPHERD 

Nay,  a  simple  swain 
That  tends  his  flock  on  yonder  plain, 
Naught  else,  I  swear  by  book  and  bell. 
But  she  that  passed  —  you  marked  her  well. 
Was  she  not  smooth  as  any  be 
That  dwell  herein  in  Arcady  ? 

PILGRIM 

Her  skin  was  as  the  satin  bark 
Of  birches. 

SHEPHERD 

Light  or  dark  ? 

PILGRIM 

Quite  dark. 

SHEPHERD 

Then  'twas  not  she. 

PILGRIM 

The  peach's  side 
That  gets  the  sun  is  not  so  dyed 
As  was  her  cheek.     Her  hair  hung  down 


BAGATELLE  125 

Like  summer  twilight  falling  brown  ; 
And  when  the  breeze  swept  by,  I  wist 
Her  face  was  in  a  sombre  mist. 


SHEPHERD 

No,  that  is  not  the  maid  I  seek. 

Her  hair  lies  gold  against  the  cheek ; 

Her  yellow  tresses  take  the  morn 

Like  silken  tassels  of  the  corn. 

And  yet  —  brown  locks  are  far  from  bad. 

PILGRIM 

Now  I  bethink  me,  this  one  had 
A  figure  like  the  willow-tree 
Which,  slight  and  supple,  wondrously 
Inclines  to  droop  with  pensive  grace, 
And  still  retains  its  proper  place ; 
A  foot  so  arched  and  very  small 
The  marvel  was  she  walked  at  all ; 
Her  hand  —  in  sooth  I  lack  for  words  — 
Her  hand,  five  slender  snow-white  birds ; 
Her     voice  —  though    she    but    said   "God 
speed  "  — 

Was  melody  blown  through  a  reed ; 
The  girl  Pan  changed  into  a  pipe 
Had  not  a  note  so  full  and  ripe. 
And  then  her  eye  —  my  lad,  her  eye ! 
Discreet,  inviting,  candid,  shy, 


126  BAGATELLE 

An  outward  ice,  an  inward  fire, 
And  lashes  to  the  heart's  desire  — 
Soft  fringes  blacker  than  the  sloe. 

SHEPHERD,  thoughtfully 

Good  sir,  which  way  did  this  one  go  ? 


PILGRIM,  solus 

So,  he  is  off !     The  silly  youth 
Knoweth  not  Love  in  sober  sooth. 
He  loves  —  thus  lads  at  first  are  blind 
No  woman,  only  Womankind. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA 

BENEATH  the  warrior's  helm,  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman ! 

Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will — 

A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?     No  !  't  is  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading ; 

If  not  —  then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading ! 


BAGATELLE  127 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses  : 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that  ? 

Was  Wisdom's  mouth  so  shaped  for  kisses  ? 

The  Nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 
And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn : 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 

She 's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column ! 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he  ?     Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 

Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  't  was  Lai's. 

But  he  is  dust ;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story  : 
Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him  —  there  's  his  glory ! 


128  BAGATELLE 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city ; 
The  countless  summers  came  and  went 

With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity. 

« 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 
The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 

Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up  — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom  ! 

O  nameless  brother !  see  how  Time 
Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so ! 


THE  MENU 

I  BEG  you  come  to-night  and  dine. 
A  welcome  waits  you,  and  sound  wine 
The  Roederer  chilly  to  a  charm, 
As  Juno's  breath  the  claret  warm, 
The  sherry  of  an  ancient  brand. 


BAGATELLE  129 

No  Persian  pomp,  you  understand  — 
A  soup,  a  fish,  two  meats,  and  then 
A  salad  fit  for  aldermen 
(When  aldermen,  alas  the  days ! 
Were  really  worth  their  mayonnaise)  \ 
A  dish  of  grapes  whose  clusters  won 
Their  bronze  in  Carolinian  sun ; 
Next,  cheese  —  for  you  the  Neufchatel, 
A  bit  of  Cheshire  likes  me  well ; 
Cafe'  au  lait  or  coffee  black, 
With  Kirsch  or  Kummel  or  Cognac 
(The  German  band  in  Irving  Place 
By  this  time  purple  in  the  face)  ; 
Cigars  and  pipes.     These  being  through, 
Friends  shall  drop  in,  a  very  few  — 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  no  more. 
When  these  are  guests  I  bolt  the  door, 
With  Not  at  Home  to  any  one 
Excepting  Alfred  Tennyson. 


COMEDY 

THEY  parted,  with  clasps  of  hand, 
And  kisses,  and  burning  tears. 
They  met,  in  a  foreign  land, 
After  some  twenty  years : 


130  BAGATELLE 

Met  as  acquaintances  meet, 
Smilingly,  tranquil-eyed  — 
Not  even  the  least  little  beat 
Of  the  heart,  upon  either  side  ! 

They  chatted  of  this  and  that, 
The  nothings  that  make  up  life ; 
She  in  a  Gainsborough  hat, 
And  he  in  black  for  his  wife. 


IN  AN  ATELIER 

I  PRAY  you,  do  not  turn  your  head ; 
And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red, 
That  troubled  Dante,  long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante  ?     Never  mind. 
He  loved  a  lady  wondrous  fair  — 
His  model  ?     Something  of  the  kind. 
I  wonder  if  she  had  your  hair ! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  was  not  meek  at  all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side  light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  paint  you, 
But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 


BAGATELLE  131 

(Depress  your  chin  ;  yes,  that  will  do) : 
He  was  a  painter  of  the  soul ! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think, 
In  the  INFERNO  —  devilish  good ! 
I  'd  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
Had  I  his  method  and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Rest  there,  by  that  majolica  tray)  — 
Was  Beatrice  ;  they  met  by  chance  — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago, 
Do  you  remember  ?     How  your  feet 
Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow 
Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street ! 
An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a  golden  frame, 
And  then  I  swore  it,  then  and  there, 
To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 
And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead  — 
Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme  ! 
Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 
Pale  Dante,  in  his  soul's  distress; 
And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 


132  BAGATELLE 

You  do  not  understand  at  all  ? 

He  was  a  poet ;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her ;  and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age. 

A  poet  —  that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid  ; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets  —  they  are  lucky  ones  ! 
When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 
Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 
Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves ; 
For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 
At  length  is  prized  —  when  all  is  bare : 
"  What  grace !  "  the  critics  cry,  "  what  strength ! " 
When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
It  is  so  little  one  can  do ; 
We  talk  our  jargon  —  live  for  Art ! 
I  'd  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are ! 
You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies : 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star 
To  make  a  pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know,  I  'm  out  of  tune ; 
The  light  is  bad ;  the  sky  is  gray : 


BAGATELLE  133 

I  paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 

So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 

Besides,  you're  moody  —  chin  on  hand  — 

I  know  not  what  —  not  in  the  vein  — 

Not  like  Anne  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland : 

You  sit  there  smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  the  Tudor's  radiant  Queen, 
Unconscious  of  the  coming  woe, 
But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 
Preparing  for  the  headsman's  blow. 
So,  I  have  put  you  in  a  miff  — 
Sitting  bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 
How  should  you  look  ?     Why,  dear,  as  if  — 
Somehow  —  as  if  you  'd  just  been  kissed ! 


AT  A  READING 

THE  spare  Professor,  grave  and  bald, 
Began  his  paper.     It  was  called, 
I  think,  "  A  brief  Historic  Glance 
At  Russia,  Germany,  and  France." 
A  glance,  but  to  my  best  belief 
'T  was  almost  anything  but  brief  — 
A  wide  survey,  in  which  the  earth 
Was  seen  before  mankind  had  birth ; 


134  BAGATELLE 

Strange  monsters  basked  them  in  the  sun, 
Behemoth,  armored  glyptodon, 
And  in  the  dawn's  unpractised  ray 
The  transient  dodo  winged  its  way  ; 
Then,  by  degrees,  through  silt  and  slough, 
We  reached  Berlin  —  I  don't  know  how. 
The  good  Professor's  monotone 
Had  turned  me  into  senseless  stone 
Instanter,  but  that  near  me  sat 
Hypatia  in  her  new  spring  hat, 
Blue-eyed,  intent,  with  lips  whose  bloom 
Lighted  the  heavy-curtained  room. 
Hypatia  —  ah,  what  lovely  things 
Are  fashioned  out  of  eighteen  springs  ! 
At  first,  in  sums  of  this  amount, 
The  blighting  winters  do  not  count. 
Just  as  my  eyes  were  growing  dim 
With  heaviness,  I  saw  that  slim, 
Erect,  elastic  figure  there, 
Like  a  pond-lily  taking  air. 
She  looked  so  fresh,  so  wise,  so  neat, 
So  altogether  crisp  and  sweet, 
I  quite  forgot  what  Bismarck  said, 
And  why  the  Emperor  shook  his  head, 
And  how  it  was  Von  Moltke's  frown 
Cost  France  another  frontier  town. 
The  only  facts  I  took  away 
From  the  Professor's  theme  that  day 


BAGATELLE  135 

Were  these  :  a  forehead  broad  and  low, 
Such  as  the  antique  sculptures  show ; 
A  chin  to  Greek  perfection  true  ; 
Eyes  of  Astarte's  tender  blue ; 
A  high  complexion  without  fleck 
Or  flaw,  and  curls  about  her  neck. 


AMONTILLADO 

(In  a  rhythm  of  Mr.  Thackeray) 

RAFTERS  black  with  smoke, 

White  with  sand  the  floor  is, 
Twenty  whiskered  Dons 

Calling  to  Dolores  — 
Tawny  flower  of  Spain, 

Wild  rose  of  Granada, 
Keeper  of  the  wines 

In  this  old  posada. 

Hither,  light-of-foot, 

Dolores  —  Juno  —  Circe ! 
Pretty  Spanish  girl 

Without  a  grain  of  mercy ! 
Here  I  'm  travel-worn, 

Sad,  and  thirsty  very, 


136  BAGATELLE 

And  she  does  not  fetch 
The  Amontillado  sherry ! 

Thank  you,  breath  of  June  ! 

Now  my  heart  beats  free ;  ah, 
Kisses  for  your  hand, 

Mariquita  mia. 
You  shall  live  in  song, 

Warm  and  ripe  and  cheery, 
Mellowing  with  years 

Like  Amontillado  sherry. 

While  the  earth  spins  round 

And  the  stars  lean  over, 
May  this  amber  sprite 

Never  lack  a  lover. 
Blessed  be  the  man 

Who  lured  her  from  the  berry, 
And  blest  the  girl  that  brings 

The  Amontillado  sherry! 

Sorrow,  get  thee  hence ! 

Care,  be  gone,  blue  dragon ! 
Only  shapes  of  joy 

Are  sculptured  on  the  flagon. 
Kisses  —  repartees  — 

Lyrics  —  all  that 's  merry 
Rise  to  touch  the  lip 

In  Amontillado  sherry. 


BAGATELLE  137 

Here  be  wit  and  mirth, 

And  love,  the  arch  enchanter ; 
Here  the  golden  blood 

Of  saints  in  this  decanter. 
When  pale  Charon  comes 

To  row  me  o'er  his  ferry, 
I  '11  fee  him  with  a  case 

Of  Amontillado  sherry ! 

What !  the  flagon 's  dry  ? 

Hark,  old  Time's  confession  — 
Both  hands  crossed  at  XII, 

Owning  his  transgression ! 
Pray,  old  monk,  for  all 

Generous  souls  and  merry ; 
May  they  have  their  share 

Of  Amontillado  sherry ! 


CARPE  DIEM 

BY  studying  my  lady's  eyes 
I  Ve  grown  so  learned  day  by  day, 
So  Machiavelian  in  this  wise, 
That  when  I  send  her  flowers,  I  say 

To  each  small  flower  (no  matter  what, 
Geranium,  pink,  or  tuberose, 


138  BAGATELLE 

Syringa,  or  forget-me-not, 
Or  violet)  before  it  goes  : 

"  Be  not  triumphant,  little  flower, 
When  on  her  haughty  heart  you  lie, 
But  modestly  enjoy  your  hour : 
She  '11  weary  of  you  by  and  by." 


DANS  LA  BOHfeME 

THE  leafless  branches  snap  with  cold ; 
The  night  is  still,  the  winds  are  laid ; 
And  you  are  sitting,  as  of  old, 
Beside  my  hearth-stone,  heavenly  maid  ! 
What  would  have  chanced  me  all  these  years, 
As  boy  and  man,  had  you  not  come 
And  brought  me  gifts  of  smiles  and  tears 
From  your  Olympian  home  ? 

Dear  Muse,  't  is  twenty  years  or  more 
Since  that  enchanted,  fairy  time 
When  you  came  tapping  at  my  door, 
Your  reticule  stuffed  full  of  rhyme. 
What  strange  things  have  befallen,  indeed, 
Since  then  !     Who  has  the  time  to  say 
What  bards  have  flowered  (and  gone  to  seed)  • 
Immortal  for  a  day ! 


BAGATELLE  139 

We  Ve  seen  Pretence  with  cross  and  crown, 
And  Folly  caught  in  self-spun  toils ; 
Merit  content  to  pass  unknown, 
And  Honor  scorning  public  spoils  — 
Seen  Bottom  wield  the  critic's  pen 
While  Ariel  sang  in  sunlit  cloud : 
Sometimes  we  wept,  and  now  and  then 
We  could  but  laugh  aloud. 

With  pilgrim  staff  and  sandal-shoon, 

One  time  we  sought  the  Old- World  shrines : 

Saw  Venice  lying  in  the  moon, 

The  Jungfrau  and  the  Apennines ; 

Beheld  the  Tiber  rolling  dark, 

Rent  temples,  fanes,  and  gods  austere ; 

In  English  meadows  heard  the  lark 

That  charmed  her  Shakespeare's  ear. 

What  dreams  and  visions  we  have  had, 
What  tempests  we  have  weathered  through ! 
Been  rich  and  poor,  and  gay  and  sad, 
But  never  hopeless  —  thanks  to  you. 
A  draught  of  water  from  the  brook, 
Or  alt  Hochheimer  —  it  was  one  ; 
Whatever  fortune  fell  we  took, 

Children  of  shade  and  sun. 

Though  lacking  gold,  we  never  stooped 
To  pick  it  up  in  all  our  days ; 


140  BAGATELLE 

Though  lacking  praise  we  sometimes  drooped, 

We  never  asked  a  soul  for  praise. 

The  exquisite  reward  of  song 

Was  song  —  the  self-same  thrill  and  glow 

That  to  unfolding  flowers  belong 

And  woodland  thrushes  know ! 

What  gilt-winged  hopes  have  taken  flight, 
And  dropped,  like  Icarus,  in  mid-sky ! 
What  cloudy  days  have  turned  to  bright ! 
What  fateful  years  have  glided  by ! 
What  lips  we  loved  vain  memory  seeks ! 
What  hands  are  cold  that  once  pressed  ours ! 
What  lashes  rest  upon  the  cheeks 

Beneath  the  snows  and  flowers  ! 

We  would  not  wish  them  back  again ; 
The  way  is  rude  from  here  to  there : 
For  us,  the  short-lived  joy  and  pain, 
For  them,  the  endless  rest  from  care, 
The  crown,  the  palm,  the  deathless  youth : 
We  would  not  wish  them  back  —  ah,  no ! 
And  as  for  us,  dear  Muse,  in  truth, 
We  Ve  but  half  way  to  go. 


BAGATELLE  141 

THE  LUNCH 

A  GOTHIC  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and  uncertain ; 
A  slab  of  rosewood  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance ; 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Black  grapes  hung   down,  dead-ripe   and  without 

lustre ; 

A  melon  cut  in  thin,  delicious  slices ; 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices ; 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey ; 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words,  and  fingers  shyly  meeting. 


IMP  OF  DREAMS 


IMP  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep, 
To  her  snowy  chamber  creep, 
And  straight  whisper  in  her  ear 
What,  awake,  she  will  not  hear  — 

Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep. 


142  BAGATELLE 

II 

Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent, 
That  no  rose  withholds  its  scent, 
That  no  bird  that  has  a  song 
Hoards  the  music  summer-long — 
Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent. 

in 

Tell  her  there  's  naught  else  to  do, 
If  to-morrow's  skies  be  blue, 
But  to  come,  with  civil  speech, 
And  walk  with  me  to  Hampton  Beach  — 
Tell  her  there 's  naught  else  to  do ! 
Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent  — 

Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep ! 


AN  ELECTIVE  COURSE 

LINES    FOUND   AMONG   THE   PAPERS   OF   A    HARVARD 
UNDERGRADUATE 

THE  bloom  that  lies  on  Hilda's  cheek 

Is  all  my  Latin,  all  my  Greek ; 

The  only  sciences  I  know 

Are  frowns  that  gloom  and  smiles  that  glow ; 


BAGATELLE  143 

Siberia  and  Italy 
Lie  in  her  sweet  geography  ; 
No  scholarship  have  I  but  such 
As  teaches  me  to  love  her  much. 

Why  should  I  strive  to  read  the  skies, 
Who  know  the  midnight  of  her  eyes  ? 
Why  should  I  go  so  very  far 
To  learn  what  heavenly  bodies  are  ? 
Not  Berenice's  starry  hair 
With  Hilda's  tresses  can  compare ; 
Not  Venus  on  a  cloudless  night, 
Enslaving  Science  with  her  light, 
Ever  reveals  so  much  as  when 
She  stares  and  droops  her  lids  again. 

If  Nature's  secrets  are  forbidden 
To  mortals,  she  may  keep  them  hidden. 
./Eons  and  aeons  we  progressed 
And  did  not  let  that  break  our  rest ; 
Little  we  cared  if  Mars  o'erhead 
Were  or  were  not  inhabited  ; 
Without  the  aid  of  Saturn's  rings 
Fair  girls  were  wived  in  those  far  springs ; 
Warm  lips  met  ours  and  conquered  us 
Or  ere  thou  wert,  Copernicus  ! 

Graybeards,  who  seek  to  bridge  the  chasm 
'Twixt  man  to-day  and  protoplasm, 


144  BAGATELLE 

Who  theorize  and  probe  and  gape, 
And  finally  evolve  an  ape  — 
Yours  is  a  harmless  sort  of  cult, 
If  you  are  pleased  with  the  result. 
Some  folks  admit,  with  cynic  grace, 
That  you  have  rather  proved  your  case. 
These  dogmatists  are  so  severe  ! 
Enough  for  me  that  Hilda  's  here, 
Enough  that,  having  long  survived 
Pre-Eveic  forms,  she  has  arrived  — 
An  illustration  the  completest 
Of  the  survival  of  the  sweetest. 

Linnaeus,  avaunt !     I  only  care 
To  know  what  flower  she  wants  to  wear. 
I  leave  it  to  the  addle-pated 
To  guess  how  pinks  originated, 
As  if  it  mattered  !     The  chief  thing 
Is  that  we  have  them  in  the  Spring, 
And  Hilda  likes  them.      When  they  come, 
I  straightway  send  and  purchase  some. 
The  Origin  of  Plants  —  go  to  ! 
Their  proper  end  /have  in  view. 

The  loveliest  book  that  ever  man 
Looked  into  since  the  world  began 
Is  Woman  !     As  I  turn  those  pages, 
As  fresh  as  in  the  primal  ages, 
As  day  by  day  I  scan,  perplexed, 


BAGATELLE  145 

The  ever  subtly  changing  text, 

I  feel  that  I  am  slowly  growing 

To  think  no  other  work  worth  knowing. 

And  in  my  copy  —  there  is  none 

So  perfect  as  the  one  I  own  — 

I  find  no  thing  set  down  but  such 

As  teaches  me  to  love  it  much. 


PEPITA 

SCARCELY  sixteen  years  old 
Is  Pepita.     (You  understand, 
A  breath  of  this  sunny  land 

Turns  green  fruit  into  gold : 

A  maiden's  conscious  blood 
In  the  cheek  of  girlhood  glows  ; 
A  bud  slips  into  a  rose 

Before  it  is  quite  a  bud.) 

And  I  in  Seville  —  sedate, 
An  American,  with  an  eye 
For  that  strip  of  indigo  sky 

Half-glimpsed  through  a  Moorish  gate 


146  BAGATELLE 

I  see  her,  sitting  up  there, 

With  tortoise-shell  comb  and  fan ; 
Red-lipped,  but  a  trifle  wan, 

Because  of  her  coal-black  hair ; 

And  the  hair  a  trifle  dull, 
Because  of  the  eyes  beneath, 
And  the  radiance  of  her  teeth 

When  her  smile  is  at  its  full ! 

Against  the  balcony  rail 

She  leans,  and  looks  on  the  street ; 

Her  lashes,  long  and  discreet, 
Shading  her  eyes  like  a  veil. 

Held  by  a  silver  dart, 

The  mantilla's  delicate  lace 
Falls  each  side  of  her  face 

And  crosswise  over  her  heart. 

This  is  Pepita  —  this 

Her  hour  for  taking  her  ease : 

A  lover  under  the  trees 
In  the  calk  were  not  amiss ! 

Well,  I  must  needs  pass  by, 

With  a  furtive  glance,  be  it  said, 
At  the  dusk  Murillo  head 

And  the  Andalusian  eye. 


BAGATELLE  147 

In  the  Plaza  I  hear  the  sounds 

Of  guitar  and  castanet ; 

Although  it  is  early  yet, 
The  dancers  are  on  their  rounds. 

Softly  the  sunlight  falls 

On  the  slim  Giralda  tower, 

That  now  peals  forth  the  hour 
O'er  broken  ramparts  and  walls. 

Ah,  what  glory  and  gloom 

In  this  Arab-Spanish  town  ! 

What  masonry,  golden-brown, 
And  hung  with  tendril  and  bloom  1 

Place  of  forgotten  kings  !  — 
With  fountains  that  never  play, 
And  gardens  where  day  by  day 

The  lonely  cicada  sings. 

Traces  are  everywhere 

Of  the  dusky  race  that  came, 
And  passed,  like  a  sudden  flame, 

Leaving  their  sighs  in  the  air ! 

Taken  with  things  like  these, 

Pepita  fades  out  of  my  mind : 

Pleasure  enough  I  find 
In  Moorish  column  and  frieze. 


I48  BAGATELLE 

And  yet  I  have  my  fears, 
If  this  had  been  long  ago, 
I  might  .  .  .  well,  I  do  not  know  . 

She  with  her  sixteen  years ! 


L'EAU  DORMANTE 

CURLED  up  and  sitting  on  her  feet, 

Within  the  window's  deep  embrasure, 
Is  Lydia ;  and  across  the  street, 

A  lad,  with  eyes  of  roguish  azure, 
Watches  her  buried  in  her  book. 
In  vain  he  tries  to  win  a  look, 
And  from  the  trellis  over  there 
Blows  sundry  kisses  through  the  air, 
Which  miss  the  mark,  and  fall  unseen, 
Uncared  for.     Lydia  is  thirteen. 

My  lad,  if  you,  without  abuse, 

Will  take  advice  from  one  who 's  wiser, 
And  put  his  wisdom  to  more  use 

Than  ever  yet  did  your  adviser ; 
If  you  will  let,  as  none  will  do, 
Another's  heartbreak  serve  for  two, 
You  '11  have  a  care,  some  four  years  hence, 


BAGATELLE  149 

How  you  lounge  there  by  yonder  fence 

And  blow  those  kisses  through  that  screen  — 

For  Lydia  will  be  seventeen. 


ECHO  SONG 

WHO  can  say  where  Echo  dwells  ? 
In  some  mountain-cave,  methinks, 
Where  the  white  owl  sits  and  blinks ; 
Or  in  deep  sequestered  dells, 
Where  the  foxglove  hangs  its  bells, 
Echo  dwells. 
Echo! 

Echo! 

Phantom  of  the  crystal  Air, 
Daughter  of  sweet  Mystery ! 
Here  is  one  has  need  of  thee ; 
Lead  him  to  thy  secret  lair, 
Myrtle  brings  he  for  thy  hair  — 
Hear  his  prayer, 
Echo! 
Echo 

Echo,  lift  thy  drowsy  head, 
And  repeat  each  charmed  word 


ISO  BAGATELLE 

Thou  must  needs  have  overheard 
Yestere'en,  ere,  rosy-red, 
Daphne  down  the  valley  fled  — 
Words  unsaid, 
Echo! 
Echo! 

Breathe  the  vows  she  since  denies ! 
She  hath  broken  every  vow ; 
What  she  would  she  would  not  now< 
Thou  didst  hear  her  perjuries. 
Whisper,  whilst  I  shut  my  eyes, 
Those  sweet  lies, 
Echo! 

Echo! 


THALIA 

A  middle-aged  lyrical  poet  is  supposed  to  be  taking  final  leave  of 
the  Muse  of  Comedy.  She  has  brought  him  his  hat  and  gloves,  and 
is  abstractedly  picking  a  thread  of  gold  hair  from  his  coat  sleeve  as 
he  begins  to  speak : 

I  SAY  it  under  the  rose  — 

oh,  thanks !  —  yes,  under  the  laurel, 
We  part  lovers,  not  foes ; 

we  are  not  going  to  quarrel. 


BAGATELLE  151 

We  have  too  long  been  friends 

on  foot  and  in  gilded  coaches, 

Now  that  the  whole  thing  ends, 

to  spoil  our  kiss  with  reproaches. 

I  leave  you ;  my  soul  is  wrung ; 

I  pause,  look  back  from  the  portal  — 
Ah,  I  no  more  am  young, 

and  you,  child,  you  are  immortal ! 

Mine  is  the  glacier's  way, 

yours  is  the  blossom's  weather  — 
When  were  December  and  May 

known  to  be  happy  together  ? 

Before  my  kisses  grow  tame, 

before  my  moodiness  grieve  you, 

While  yet  my  heart  is  flame, 
and  I  all  lover,  I  leave  you. 

So,  in  the  coming  time, 

when  you  count  the  rich  years  over, 
Think  of  me  in  my  prime, 

and  not  as  a  white-haired  lover, 

Fretful,  pierced  with  regret, 

the  wraith  of  a  dead  Desire 
Thrumming  a  cracked  spinet 

by  a  slowly  dying  fire. 


152  BAGATELLE 

When,  at  last,  I  am  cold  — 

years  hence,  if  the  gods  so  will  it  — > 
Say,  "  He  was  true  as  gold," 

and  wear  a  rose  in  your  fillet ! 

Others,  tender  as  I, 

will  come  and  sue  for  caresses, 
Woo  you,  win  you,  and  die  — 

mind  you,  a  rose  in  your  tresses ! 

Some  Melpomene  woo, 

some  hold  Clio  the  nearest ; 

You,  sweet  Comedy  —  you 

were  ever  sweetest  and  dearest ! 

Nay,  it  is  time  to  go. 

When  writing  your  tragic  sister 
Say  to  that  child  of  woe 

how  sorry  I  was  I  missed  her. 

Really,  I  cannot  stay, 

though  "  parting  is  such  sweet  sonow  " 
Perhaps  I  will,  on  my  way 

down-town,  look  in  to-morrow  I 


BAGATELLE  153 

PALINODE 

WHO  is  Lydia,  pray,  and  who 
Is  Hypatia  ?     Softly,  dear, 
Let  me  breathe  it  in  your  ear  — 
They  are  you,  and  only  you. 
And  those  other  nameless  two 
Walking  in  Arcadian  air  — 
She  that  was  so  very  fair  ? 
She  that  had  the  twilight  hair?  — 
They  were  you,  dear,  only  you. 
If  I  speak  of  night  or  day, 
Grace  of  fern  or  bloom  of  grape, 
Hanging  cloud  or  fountain  spray, 
Gem  or  star  or  glistening  dew, 
Or  of  mythologic  shape, 
Psyche,  Pyrrha,  Daphne,  say  — 
I  mean  you,  dear,  you,  just  you. 


MERCEDES 


CHARACTERS 

ACHILLE  LOUVOIS  MERCEDES 

LABOISSIERE  URSULA 

PADRE  JOSEF  SERGEANT  and  SOLDIERS 

Scene,  SPAIN        Period,  1810 

ACT    I 

A  detachment  of  French  troops  bivouacked  on  the  edge  of  the  forest 
of  Covelleda  —  A  sentinel  is  seen  on  the  cliffs  overhanging  the 
camp  —  The  guard  is  relieved  in  dumb  show  as  the  dialogue  pro 
gresses —  Louvois  and  Laboissiere,  wrapped  in  greatcoats,  are 
seated  by  a  smouldering  fire  of  brushwood  in  the  foreground  — 
Starlight. 

SCENE  I 


Louvois ! 


Louvois,  LABOISSIERE 

LABOISSIERE 


LOUVOIS,  starting  from  a  reverie 

Eh  ?     What  is  it  ?     I  must  have  slept. 

LABOISSIERE 

With  eyes  staring  at  nothing,  like  an  Egyptian 
idol !     This  is  not  amusing.     You  are  as  gloomy 
to-night  as  an  undertaker  out  of  employment. 
'55 


156  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

Say,  rather,  an  executioner  who  loathes  his  trade. 
No,  I  was  not  asleep.  I  cannot  sleep  with  this 
business  on  my  conscience. 

LABOISSlfeRE 

In  affairs  like  this,  conscience  goes  to  the  rear 
—  with  the  sick  and  wounded. 


One  may  be  forgiven,  or  can  forgive  himself, 
many  a  cruel  thing  done  in  the  heat  of  battle ;  but 
to  steal  upon  a  defenceless  village,  and  in  cold 
blood  sabre  old  men,  women,  and  children  —  that 
revolts  me. 

LABOISSI&RE 

What  must  be,  must  be. 

LOUVOIS 
Yes  —  the  poor  wretches. 

LABOISSlfeRE 

The  orders  are 

LOUVOIS 
Every  soul ! 


MERCEDES  157 

LABOISSIERE 

They  have  brought  it  upon  themselves,  if  that 
comforts  them.  Every  defile  in  these  infernal 
mountains  bristles  with  carabines ;  every  village 
gives  shelter  or  warning  to  the  guerrillas.  The 
army  is  being  decimated  by  assassination.  It  is 
the  same  ghastly  story  throughout  Castile  and 
Estremadura.  After  we  have  taken  a  town  we 
lose  more  men  than  it  cost  us  to  storm  it.  I  would 
rather  look  into  the  throat  of  a  battery  at  forty 
paces  than  attempt  to  pass  through  certain  streets 
in  Madrid  or  Burgos  after  nightfall.  You  go  in  at 
one  end,  but,  diantre  !  you  don't  come  out  at  the 
other. 


What  would  you  have  ?  It  is  life  or  death  with 
these  people. 

LABOISSIERE 

I  would  have  them  fight  like  Christians.  Poison 
ing  wells  and  water-courses  is  not  fighting,  and 
assassination  is  not  war.  Some  such  blow  as  we 
are  about  to  strike  is  the  sort  of  rude  surgery  the 
case  demands. 


Certainly  the  French  army  on  the  Peninsula  is  in 
a  desperate  strait.     The  men  are  worn  out  contend- 


158  MERCEDES 

ing  against  shadows,  and  disheartened  by  victories 
that  prove  more  disastrous  than  defeats  in  other 
lands. 

LABOISSIERE 

It  is  the  devil's  own  country.  The  very  birds 
here  have  no  song.1  Even  the  cigars  are  damna 
ble.  Will  you  have  one  ? 

LOUVOIS 
Thanks,  no. 

LABOISSIERE,  after  a  pause 

This  village  of  Arguano  which  we  are  to  disci 
pline,  as  the  brave  Junot  would  say,  is  it  much  of 
a  village  ? 

LOUVOIS 

No ;  an  insignificant  hamlet  —  one  wide  calle  with 
a  zigzag  line  of  stucco  houses  on  each  side ;  a  po- 
soda,  and  a  forlorn  chapel  standing  like  an  over 
grown  tombstone  in  the  middle  of  the  cemetery. 
In  the  market-place,  three  withered  olive-trees. 
On  a  hilltop  overlooking  all,  a  windmill  of  the 
time  of  Don  Quixote.  In  brief,  the  regulation 
Spanish  village. 

1  Except  in  a  few  provinces,  singing-birds  are  rare  in  Spain, 
owing  to  the  absence  of  woodland. 


MERCEDES  159 

LABOISSIERE 

You  have  been  there,  then  ?  —  with  your  three 
withered  olive-trees ! 

LOUVOIS,  slowly 

Yes,  I  have  been  there  .  .  . 

LABOISSIERE,  aside 

He  has  that  same  odd  look  in  his  eyes  which 
has  puzzled  me  these  two  days.  (A loud)  If  I  have 
touched  a  wrong  chord,  pardon !  You  have  un 
pleasant  associations  with  the  place. 

LOUVOIS 

I  ?  Oh  no ;  on  the  contrary  I  have  none  but 
agreeable  memories  of  Arguano.  I  was  quartered 
there,  or  rather,  in  the  neighborhood,  for  several 
weeks  a  year  or  two  ago.  I  was  recovering  from 
a  wound  at  the  time,  and  the  air  of  that  valley 
did  me  better  service  than  a  platoon  of  surgeons. 
Then  the  villagers  were  simple,  honest  folk  —  for 
Spaniards.  Indeed,  they  were  kindly  folk.  I  re 
member  the  old  padre  ;  he  was  not  half  a  bad  fel 
low,  though  I  have  no  love  for  the  long-gowns. 
With  his  scant  black  soutane,  and  his  thin  white 
hair  brushed  behind  his  ears  under  a  skull-cap,  he 
somehow  reminded  me  of  my  old  mother  in  Lan- 
guedoc,  and  we  were  good  comrades.  We  used 
now  and  then  to  empty  a  bottle  of  Valdepenas  to- 


160  MERCEDES 

gether  in  the  shady  posada  garden.  The  native 
wine  here,  when  you  get  it  pure,  is  better  than  it 
promises. 

LABOISSliRE 

Why,  that  was  consorting  with  the  enemy !  The 
Church  is  our  deadliest  foe  now.  Since  the  bull 
of  Pius  VII.,  excommunicating  the  Emperor,  we  all 
are  heretical  dogs  in  Spanish  eyes.  His  Holiness 
has  made  murder  a  short  cut  to  heaven.1  By  pon 
iarding  or  poisoning  a  Frenchman,  these  fanatics 
fancy  that  they  insure  their  infinitesimal  souls. 

LOUVOIS  rises 

Yes,  they  believe  that;  yet  when  all  is  said,  I 
have  no  great  thirst  for  this  poor  padre's  blood. 
If  the  marechal  had  only  turned  over  to  me  some 
other  village!  No  —  I  do  not  mean  what  I  say. 

1  In  Andalusia,  and  in  fact  throughout  Spain  at  that  period, 
the  priests  taught  the  children  a  catechism  of  which  this  is  a 
specimen :  "  How  many  Emperors  of  the  French  are  there  ? " 
"One  actually,  in  three  deceiving  persons."  —  "What  are 
they  called  ? "  "  Napoleon,  Murat,  and  Manuel  Godoy, 
Prince  of  the  Peace."  —  "  Which  is  the  most  wicked  ? "  "  They 
are  all  equally  so."  —  "What  are  the  French?"  "Apostate 
Christians  turned  heretics."  — "  What  punishment  does  a 
Spaniard  deserve  who  fails  in  his  duty  ? "  "  The  death  and 
infamy  of  a  traitor."  —  "  Is  it  a  sin  to  kill  a  Frenchman  ? " 
"No,  my  father;  heaven  is  gained  by  killing  one  of  these 
heretical  dogs." 


MERCEDES  161 

Since  the  work  was  to  be  done,  it  was  better  I 
should  do  it.  There  's  a  fatality  in  sending  me  to 
Arguano.  Remember  that.  From  the  moment  the 
order  came  from  headquarters  I  have  had  such  a 
heaviness  here.  (Pauses)  Awhile  ago,  in  a  half  doze, 
I  dreamed  of  cutting  down  this  harmless  old  priest 
who  had  come  to  me  to  beg  mercy  for  the  women 
and  children.  I  cut  him  across  the  face,  Labois- 
siere !  I  saw  him  still  smiling,  with  his  lip  slashed 
in  two.  The  irony  of  it !  When  I  think  of  that 
smile  I  am  tempted  to  break  my  sword  over  my 
knee,  and  throw  myself  into  the  ravine  yonder. 

LABOISSlfeRE,  aside 

This  is  the  man  who  got  the  cross  for  sabring 
three  gunners  in  the  trench  at  Saragossa !  It  is 
droll  he  should  be  so  moved  by  the  idea  of  killing 
a  beggarly  old  Jesuit  more  or  less.  (Aloud)  Bah ! 
it  was  only  a  dream,  voild,  tout — one  of  those 
villainous  nightmares  which  run  wild  over  these 
hills.  I  have  been  kicked  by  them  myself  many  a 
time.  What,  the  devil !  dreams  always  go  by  con 
traries  ;  in  which  case  you  will  have  the  satisfaction 
of  being  knocked  on  the  head  by  the  venerable 
padre  —  and  so  quits.  It  may  come  to  that.  Who 
knows  ?  We  are  surrounded  by  spies ;  I  would 
wager  a  week's  rations  that  Arguano  is  prepared 
for  us. 


162  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

If  I  thought  that !  An  assault  with  resistance 
would  cover  all.  Yes,  yes  —  the  spies.  They  must 
be  aware  of  our  destination  and  purpose.  A  move 
ment  such  as  this  could  not  have  been  made  unob 
served.  (Abruptly)  Laboissiere ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Well? 

LOUVOIS 

There  was  a  certain  girl  at  Arguano,  a  niece  or 
god-daughter  to  the  old  padre  —  a  brave  girl. 

LABOISSliRE 

Ah  —  so  ?  Come  now,  confess,  my  captain,  it 
was  the  sobrina,  and  not  the  old  priest,  you  struck 
down  in  your  dream. 

LOUVOIS 
Yes,  that  was  it.     How  did  you  know  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

By  instinct  and  observation.  There  is  always  a 
woman  at  the  bottom  of  everything.  You  have 
only  to  go  deep  enough. 

LOUVOIS 
This  girl  troubles  me.     I  was  ordered  from  Ar- 


MERCEDES  163 

guano  without  an  instant's  warning  —  at  midnight 
—  between  two  breaths,  as  it  were.  Then  commu 
nication  with  the  place  was  cut  off.  ...  I  have 
never  heard  word  of  her  since. 

LABOISSlfcRE    - 

So  ?    Did  you  love  her  ? 

LOUVOIS 
I  have  not  said  that. 

LABOISSIERE 

Speak  your  thought,  and  say  it.  I  ever  loved  a 
love-story,  when  it  ran  as  clear  as  a  trout-brook  and 
had  the  right  heart-leaps  in  it.  With  this  wind 
sighing  in  the  tree-tops,  and  these  heavy  stars 
drooping  over  us,  it  is  the  very  place  and  hour  for 
a  bit  of  romance.  Come,  now. 


LABOISSIERE 

I  knew  it !     I  will  begin  for  you  :  You  loved  her. 

LOUVOIS 

Yes,  I  loved  her.  It  was  the  good  God  that  sent 
her  to  my  bedside.  She  nursed  me  day  and  night. 
She  brought  me  back  to  life.  ...  I  know  not  how 


164  MERCEDES 

it  happened ;  the  events  have  no  sequence  in  my 
memory.  I  had  been  wounded ;  I  dropped  from 
the  saddle  as  we  entered  the  village,  and  was  car 
ried  for  dead  into  one  of  the  huts.  Then  the  fever 
took  me.  .  .  .  Day  after  day  I  plunged  from  one 
black  abyss  into  another,  my  wits  quite  gone.  At 
odd  intervals  I  was  conscious  of  some  one  bending 
over  me.  Now  it  seemed  to  be  a  demon,  and  now 
a  white-hooded  sister  of  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Paris. 
Oftener  it  was  that  madonna  above  the  altar  in  the 
old  mosque  at  Cordova.  Such  strange  fancies  take 
men  with  gunshot  wounds.  One  night  I  awoke  in 
my  senses,  and  there  she  sat,  with  her  fathomless 
eyes  fixed  upon  my  face,  like  a  statue  of  Pity.  You 
know  those  narrow,  melting  eyes  these  women  have, 
with  a  dash  of  Arab  fire  in  them  .  .  . 

LABOISSI^RE 
Know  them  ?     Sacrebleu ! 


The  first  time  I  walked  out,  she  led  me  by  the 
hand,  I  was  so  very  weak,  like  a  little  child  learn 
ing  to  walk.  It  was  spring,  the  skies  were  blue, 
the  almonds  were  in  blossom,  the  air  was  like  wine. 
Great  heaven !  how  beautiful  and  fresh  the  world 
was,  as  if  God  had  just  made  it!  From  time  to 
time  I  leaned  upon  her  shoulder,  not  thinking 
of  her.  .  .  Later  I  came  to  know  her  —  a  saint 


MERCEDES  165 

in  disguise,  a  peasant-girl  with  the  instincts  of  a 
duchess. 


LABOISSIERE 

They  are  always  like  that,  saints  and  duchesses 
—  by  brevet!  I  fell  in  with  her  own  sister  at  Bar 
celona.  Look  you  —  braids  of  purple-black  hair 
and  the  complexion  of  a  newly-minted  napoleon. 
I  forget  her  name.  (Knitting  his  brows)  Paquita  .  .  . 
Mariquita  ?  It  was  something-quita,  but  no  matter. 


How  it  all  comes  back  to  me !  The  wild  foot 
paths  in  the  haunted  forest  of  Covelleda ;  the 
broken  Moorish  water-tank,  in  the  plaza,  against 
which  we  leaned  to  watch  the  gypsy  dances ;  the 
worn  stone  step  of  the  cottage,  where  we  sat  of 
evenings  with  guitar  and  cigarette.  What  simple 
things  make  a  man  forget  that  his  grave  lies  in 
front  of  him  !  (Pauses)  There  was  a  lover,  a  contra- 
bandista,  or  something  —  a  fellow  who  might  have 
played  the  spadassin  in  one  of  Lope  de  Vega's 
cloak-and-dagger  comedies.  The  gloom  of  the  lad, 
fingering  his  stiletto-hilt !  Presently  she  sent  him 
to  the  right-about,  him  and  his  scowls  —  the  poor 
devil.  A  certain  Pedro  Mendez. 

LABOISSIERE 

Oh,  a  very  bad  case  ! 


166  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

I  would  not  have  any  hurt  befall  that  girl,  Labois- 
siere ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Surely. 

LOUVOIS 

And  there 's  no  human  way  to  warn  her  of  her 
danger ! 

LABOISSIERE 

To  warn  her  would  be  to  warn  the  village  —  and 
defeat  our  end.  However,  no  French  messenger 
could  reach  the  place  alive. 

LOUVOIS 

And  no  other  is  possible.  Now  you  understand 
my  misery.  I  am  ready  to  go  mad. 

LABOISSIERE 

You  take  the  thing  too  seriously.  Nothing  ever 
is  so  bad  as  it  looks,  except  a  Spanish  ragofit. 
After  all,  it  is  not  likely  that  a  single  soul  is  left  in 
Arguano.  The  very  leaves  of  this  dismal  forest  are 
lips  that  whisper  of  our  movements.  The  villagers 
have  doubtless  made  off  with  that  fine  store  of  grain 
and  aguardiente  we  so  sorely  stand  in  need  of,  and 
a  score  or  two  of  the  brigands  are  probably  lying 
in  wait  for  us  in  some  narrow  canon. 


MERCEDES  167 

LOUVOIS 

God  will  it  so ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Louvois,  if  the  girl  is  at  Arguano,  not  a  hair  of 
her  head  shall  be  harmed,  though  I  am  shot  for  it 
when  we  get  back  to  Burgos  ! 

LOUVOIS 

You  are  a  brave  soul,  Laboissiere  !  Your  words 
have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  bosom.  Without 
your  aid  I  should  be  powerless  to  save  her. 

LABOISSIERE 

Are  we  not  comrades,  we  who  have  fought  side 
by  side  these  six  months,  and  lain  together  night 
after  night  with  this  blue  arch  for  our  tent-roof? 
Dismiss  your  anxiety.  What  is  that  Gascogne 
proverb?  —  "We  suffer  most  from  the  ills  that 
never  happen."  Let  us  get  some  rest ;  we  have 
had  a  rude  day.  .  .  .  See,  the  stars  have  doubled 
their  pickets  out  there  to  the  westward. 


You  are  right ;  we  should  sleep.     We  march  at 
daybreak.     Good-night. 

LABOISSIERE 

Good-night,  and  vive  la  France  ! 


168  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

Vive  FEmpereur! 

LABOISSlfeRE  walks  away  humming 

"  Reposez-vou s,  bons  chevaliers  /" 

LOUVOIS,  looking  after  him 

There  goes  a  light  heart.     But  mine  .  .  .  mine  is 
as  heavy  as  lead. 


SCENE  II 

LYRICAL   INTERLUDE 
Soldiers'  Song 

While  this  is  being  sung  behind  the  scenes  the  guard  is  relieved  on 
the  cliffs.  Louvois  wraps  his  cloak  around  him  and  falls  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 

The  camp  is  hushed ;  the  fires  burn  low ; 
Like  ghosts  the  sentries  come  and  go : 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  upon  the  height 
A  keen  drawn  sabre  glimmers  white. 
Swiftly  the  midnight  steals  away  — 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 

Perchance  into  your  dream  shall  come 
Visions  of  love  or  thoughts  of  home ; 


MERCEDES  169 

The  furtive  night  wind,  hurrying  by, 
Shall  kiss  away  the  half-breathed  sigh, 
And  softly  whispering,  seem  to  say, 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 

Through  star-lit  dusk  and  shimmering  dew 
It  is  your  lady  comes  to  you  ! 
Delphine,  Lisette,  Annette  —  who  knows 
By  what  sweet  wayward  name  she  goes  ? 
Wrapped  in  white  arms  till  break  of  day, 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  song  the  stage  is  gradually  darkened  and 
the  scene  changed. 


ACT  II 

Morning  —  The  interior  of  a  stone  hut  in  Arguano  —  Through  the 
door  opening  upon  the  calle  are  seen  piles  of  Indian  corn,  sheaves 
of  wheat,  and  loaves  of  bread  partly  consumed  —  Empty  wine-skins 
are  scattered  here  and  there  among  the  cinders  —  In  one  corner 
of  the  chamber,  which  is  low-studded  but  spacious,  an  old  woman 
is  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  and  crooning  to  herself  —  At  the  left,  a 
settle  stands  against  the  wall  —  In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  child 
lies  asleep  in  a  cradle — Mercedes  —  Padre  Jos6f  entering  ab 
ruptly. 

SCENE  I 
MERCEDES,  PADRE  JOSEF,  then  URSULA 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Mercedes !  daughter !  are  you  mad  to  linger  so  ? 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  father,  it  is  you  who  are  mad  to  come  back. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

We  were  nearly  a  mile  from  the  village  when  I 
missed  you  and  the  child.  I  had  stopped  at  your 
cottage  and  found  no  one.  I  thought  you  were 
with  those  who  had  started  at  sunrise. 


MERCEDES  171 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  I  brought  Chiquita  here  last  night  when  I 
heard  the  French  were  coming. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Quick,  Mercedes  !  there  is  not  an  instant  to  waste. 

MERCEDES 

Then   hasten,  Padre  Jose'f,  while  there  is  yet 

time.  [Pushes  him  towards  the  door 

PADRE  JOSEF 

And  you,  child  ? 

MERCEDES 

I  shall  stay. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Listen  to  her,  Sainted  Virgin  !  she  will  stay,  and 
the  French  bloodhounds  at  our  very  heels ! 

MERCEDES,  glancing  at  Ursula 

Could  I  leave  old  Ursula,  and  she  not  able  to 
climb  the  mountain  ?  Think  you  —  my  own  flesh 
and  blood ! 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Ah,  cido!  true.  They  have  forgotten  her,  the 
cowards!  and  now  it  is  too  late.  God  willed  it  — 


172  MERCEDES 

santificado  sea  tu  nombre !  (Hesitates)  Mercedes,  Ur 
sula  is  old  —  very  old ;  the  better  part  of  her  is 
already  dead.  See  how  she  laughs  and  mumbles 
to  herself,  and  knows  naught  of  what  is  passing. 

MERCEDES 

The  poor  grandmother  !  she  thinks  it  is  a  saint's 

day.  [Seats  herself  on  the  settle 

PADRE  JOSEF 

What  is  life  or  death  to  her  whose  soul  is  other 
where  ?  What  is  a  second  more  or  less  to  the  leaf 
that  clings  to  a  shrunken  bough  ?  But  you,  Mer 
cedes,  the  long  summer  smiles  for  such  as  you. 
Think  of  yourself,  think  of  Chiquita.  Come  with 
me,  child,  come ! 


Ay,  ay,  go  with  the  good  padre,  dear.  There  is 
dancing  on  the  plaza.  The  gitanos  are  there,  may 
hap.  I  hear  the  music.  I  had  ever  an  ear  for  tam 
bourines  and  castanets.  When  I  was  a  slip  of  a 
girl,  I  used  to  foot  it  with  the  best  in  the  cachuca 
and  the  bolera.  I  was  a  merry  jade,  Mercedes  — 
a  merry  jade.  Wear  your  broidered  garters,  dear. 

MERCEDES 

She  hears  music.  (Listens)  No.  Her  mind  wan 
ders  strangely  to-day,  now  here,  now  there.  The 


MERCEDES  173 

gray   spirits    are   with    her.     (TO  Ursula  gently)     No, 
grandmother,  I  came  to  stay  with  you,  I  and  Chi- 

[Crosses  ever  to  Ursula 


PADRE  JOSEF 

You  are  mad,  Mercedes.  They  will  murder  you 
all. 

MERCEDES 

They  will  not  have  the  heart  to  harm  Chiquita, 
nor  me,  perchance,  for  her  sake. 

PADRE  JOSEF    . 

They  have  no  hearts,  these  Frenchmen.  Ah, 
Mercedes,  do  you  not  know  better  than  most  that 
a  Frenchman  has  no  heart?  [Points  to  the  cradle 

MERCEDES,  hastily 

I  know  nothing.  I  shall  stay.  Is  life  so  sweet 
to  me  ?  Go,  Padre  Josef.  What  could  save  you 
if  they  found  you  here  ?  Not  your  priest's  gown. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

You  will  follow,  my  daughter  ? 

MERCEDES 

No. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

I  beseech  you  ! 


174  MERCEDES 

MERCEDES 

No. 

PADRE  JOS^F 

Then  you  are  lost ! 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  padrino,  God  is  everywhere.  Have  you  not 
yourself  said  it?  Lay  your  hands  for  a  moment 
on  my  head,  as  you  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  little 
child,  and  go  —  go  !  [Ktutb 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Thou  wert  ever  a  wilful  girl,  Mercedes. 

MERCEDES 

Oh,  say  not  so ;  but  quick  —  your  blessing,  quick ! 

PADRE  JOSEF 

A   Dios 

He  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  Mercedes'  forehead,  and 
slowly  turns  away.  Mercedes  rises,  follows  him  to  the 
door,  and  looks  after  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then 
she  returns  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  sits  on  a  low 
stool  beside  the  cradle. 


MERCEDES  175 

SCENE  II 

MERCEDES,  URSULA 

URSULA,  after  a  silence 

Has  he  gone,  the  good  padre  ? 

MERCEDES 

Yes,  dear  soul. 

URSULA,  reflectively 

He  was  your  uncle  once. 

MERCEDES 

Once  ?     Yes,  and  always.     How  you  speak  ! 

URSULA 

He  is  not  gay  any  more,  the  good  padre.     He  is 
getting  old  .  .  .  getting  old. 

MERCEDES 

To   hear   her !  and   she   eighty  years   last   San 
Miguel's  day ! 

URSULA 
What  day  is  it  ? 

MERCEDES,  laying  one  finger  on  her  lift 

Hist !     Chiquita  is  waking. 


176  MERCEDES 

URSULA,  querulously 

Hist  ?  Nay,  I  will  say  my  say  in  spite  of  all. 
Hist  ?  God  save  us !  who  taught  thee  to  say  hist 
to  thy  elders?  Ay,  ay,  who  .taught  thee?  .  .  . 
What  day  is  it  ? 

MERCEDES,  aside 

How  sharp  she  is  awhiles !  (Aloud)  Pardon, 
pardon !  Here  is  little  Chiquita,  with  both  eyes 
wide  open,  to  help  me  beg  thy  forgiveness.  (Bends 
over  the  cradle)  See,  she  has  a  smile  for  grandmother. 
.  .  .  Ah,  no,  little  one,  I  have  no  milk  for  thee; 
the  trouble  has  taken  it  all.  Nay,  cry  not,  dainty, 
or  that  will  break  my  heart. 

URSULA 

Sing  to  her,  nieta.  What  is  it  you  sing  that 
always  hushes  her  ?  'T  is  gone  from  me. 

MERCEDES 

I  know  not. 

URSULA 

Bethink  thee. 

MERCEDES 

I  cannot.  Ah  —  the  rhyme  of  The  Three  Little 
White  Teeth? 


MERCEDES  177 

URSULA,  clapping  her  hands 

Ay,  ay,  that  is  it ! 

MERCEDES  rocks  the  child,  and  sings 

Who  is  it  opens  her  blue  bright  eye, 
Bright  as  the  sea  and  blue  as  the  sky  ?  — 

Chiquita ! 

Who  has  the  smile  that  comes  and  goes 
Like  sunshine  over  her  mouth's  red  rose  ?  — 

Muchachita  / 

What  is  the  softest  laughter  heard, 
Gurgle  of  brook  or  trill  of  bird, 

Chiquita  ? 

Nay,  't  is  thy  laughter  makes  the  rill 
Hush  its  voice  and  the  bird  be  still, 

Muchachita  ! 

Ah,  little  flower-hand  on  my  breast, 
How  it  soothes  me  and  gives  me  rest  1 

Chiquita ! 

What  is  the  sweetest  sight  I  know  ? 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 

Muchachita  ! 

As  Mercedes  finishes  the  song,  a  roll  of  drums  is  heard  in  the 
calle.  At  the  first  tap  she  starts  and  listens  intently,  then 
assumes  a  stolid  air.  The  sound  approaches  the  door  and 
suddenly  ceases. 


i;8  MERCEDES 

SCENE  III 
LABOISSIERE,  MERCEDES,  then  SOLDIERS 

LABOISSIERE,  outside 

A  sergeant  and  two  men  to  follow  me !  (Mutters) 
Curse  me  if  there  is  so  much  as  a  mouse  left  in  the 
whole  village.  Not  a  drop  of  wine,  and  the  bread 

burnt  tO  a  Crisp the  sdtiratS  !    (Appears  at  the  threshold) 

Hulloa !  what  is  this?  An  old  woman  and  a  young 
one  —  an  Andalusian  by  the  arch  of  her  instep  and 
the  length  of  her  eyelashes  !  (/»  Spanish)  Girl,  what 
are  you  doing  here  ? 

MERCEDES,  in  French 

Where  should  I  be,  monsieur  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

You  speak  French  ? 

MERCEDES 

Caramba !  since  you  speak  Spanish. 

LABOISSIERE 

It  was  out  of  politeness.  But  talk  your  own  jar 
gon  —  it  is  a  language  that  turns  to  honey  on  the 
tongue  of  a  pretty  woman.  (Aside)  It  was  my  luck 
to  unearth  the  only  woman  in  the  place !  The  cap 
tain's  white  blackbird  has  flown,  bag  and  baggage, 


MERCEDES  179 

thank  Heaven  !  Poor  Louvois,  what  a  grim  face 
he  made  over  the  empty  nest !  (Aloud)  Your  neigh 
bors  have  gone.  Why  are  you  not  with  them  ? 

MERCEDES,  pointing  to  Ursula 

It  is  my  grandmother,  senor ;  she  is  very  old. 

LABOISSIERE 

So  ?  You  could  not  carry  her  off,  and  you  re 
mained  ? 

MERCEDES 

Precisely. 

LABOISSIERE 

That  was  like  a  brave  girl.  (Touching  his  cap)  I  sa 
lute  valor  whenever  I  meet  it.  Why  have  all  the 
villagers  fled  ? 

MERCEDES 

Did  they  wish  to  be  massacred  ? 

LABOISSIERE,  shrugging  his  shoulders 

And  you  ? 

MERCEDES 

It  would  be  too  much  glory  for  a  hundred  and 
eighty  French  soldiers  to  kill  one  poor  peasant  girl. 
And  then  to  come  so  far ! 


i8o  MERCEDES 

LABOISSIERE,  aside 

She  knows  our  very  numbers,  the  fox!  How 
she  shows  her  teeth ! 

MERCEDES 

Besides,  senor,  one  can  die  but  once. 

LABOISSIERE 

That  is  often  enough.  —  Why  did  your  people 
waste  the  bread  and  wine  ? 

MERCEDES 

That  yours  might  neither  eat  the  one  nor  drink 
the  other.  We  do  not  store  food  for  our  ene 
mies. 

LABOISSIERE 

They  could  not  take  away  the  provisions,  so  they 
destroyed  them  ? 

MERCEDES,  mockingly 

Nothing  escapes  you ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Is  that  your  child  ? 

MERCEDES 

Yes,  the  hija  is  mine. 


MERCEDES  181 

LABOISSIERE 

Where  is  your  husband  —  with  the  brigands  yon 
der? 

MERCEDES 

My  husband  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

Your  lover,  then. 

MERCEDES 

I  have  no  lover.     My  husband  is  dead. 

LABOISSIERE 

I  think  you  are  lying  now.     He 's  a  guerrilla. 

MERCEDES 

If  he  were,  I  should  not  deny  it.  What  Spanish 
woman  would  rest  her  cheek  upon  the  bosom  that 
has  not  a  carabine  pressed  against  it  this  day  ?  It 
were  better  to  be  a  soldier's  widow  than  a  coward's 
wife. 

LABOISSIERE,  aside 

The  little  demon  !  But  she  is  ravishing !  She 
would  have  upset  St.  Anthony,  this  one  —  if  he  had 
belonged  to  the  Second  Chasseurs !  What  is  to 
be  done  ?  Theoretically,  I  am  to  pass  my  sword 
through  her  body;  practically,  I  shall  make  love 


182  MERCEDES 

to  her  in  ten  minutes  more,  though  her  readiness  to 
become  a  widow  is  not  altogether  pleasing.  (Aloud) 
Here,  sergeant,  go  report  this  matter  to  the  cap 
tain.  He  is  in  the  posada  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
square. 

Exit  sergeant.  Shouts  of  exultation  and  laughter  are  heard 
outside,  and  presently  three  or  four  soldiers  enter,  bearing 
hams  and  a  skin  of  wine.  Mercedes  gives  a  start. 

FIRST   SOLDIER 

Voila,  lieutenant ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Where  did  you  get  that  ? 

SECOND  SOLDIER 

In  a  cellar  hard  by,  hidden  under  some  rushes. 

THIRD   SOLDIER 

There  are  five  more  skins  of  wine  like  this  jolly 
fellow  in  his  leather  jacket.  Pray  order  a  division 
of  the  booty,  my  lieutenant,  for  we  are  as  dry  as 
herrings  in  a  box. 

LABOISSIERE 
A  moment,    my  braves.       (Looks  at  Mercedes  significantly) 

Woman,  is  that  wine  good  ? 

MERCEDES 

The  vintage  was  poor  this  year,  senor. 


MERCEDES  183 

LABOISSIERE 

I  mean  —  is  that  wine  good  for  a  Frenchman  to 
drink  ? 

MERCEDES 

Why  not,  senor  ? 

LABOISSIERE,  sternly 

Yes  or  no  ? 

MERCEDES 

Yes. 

LABOISSIERE 

Why  was  it  not  served  like  the  rest,  then  ? 

MERCEDES 

They  hid  a  few  skins,  thinking  to  come  back  for 
it  when  you  were  gone.  An  ill  thing  does  not  last 
forever. 

LABOISSIERE 

Open  it,  some  one,  and  fetch  me  a  glass.  (To 
Mtrcedes)  You  will  drink  this. 

MERCEDES,  coldly 

When  I  am  thirsty  I  drink. 

LABOISSIERE 

Pardieu  !  this  time  you  shall  drink  because  /am 
thirsty. 


182  MERCEDES 

to  her  in  ten  minutes  more,  though  her  readiness  to 
become  a  widow  is  not  altogether  pleasing.  (Aloud) 
Here,  sergeant,  go  report  this  matter  to  the  cap 
tain.  He  is  in  the  posada  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
square. 

Exit  sergeant.  Shouts  of  exultation  and  laughter  are  heard 
outside,  and  presently  three  or  four  soldiers  enter,  bearing 
hams  and  a  skin  of  wine.  Mercedes  gives  a  start. 

FIRST   SOLDIER 

Voila,  lieutenant ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Where  did  you  get  that  ? 

SECOND   SOLDIER 

In  a  cellar  hard  by,  hidden  under  some  rushes. 

THIRD   SOLDIER 

There  are  five  more  skins  of  wine  like  this  jolly 
fellow  in  his  leather  jacket.  Pray  order  a  division 
of  the  booty,  my  lieutenant,  for  we  are  as  dry  as 
herrings  in  a  box. 

LABOISSIERE 
A  moment,    my  braves.       (Looks  at  Mercedes  significantly) 

Woman,  is  that  wine  good  ? 

MERCEDES 

The  vintage  was  poor  this  year,  senor. 


MERCEDES  183 

LABOISSIERE 

I  mean  —  is  that  wine  good  for  a  Frenchman  to 

drink  ? 

MERCEDES 

Why  not,  senor  ? 

LABOISSIERE,  sternly 

Yes  or  no  ? 

MERCEDES 

Yes. 

LABOISSIERE 

Why  was  it  not  served  like  the  rest,  then  ? 

MERCEDES 

They  hid  a  few  skins,  thinking  to  come  back  for 
it  when  you  were  gone.  An  ill  thing  does  not  last 
forever. 

LABOISSIERE 

Open  it,  some  one,  and  fetch  me  a  glass.  (To 
Mtrcedes)  You  will  drink  this. 

MERCEDES,  coldly 

When  I  am  thirsty  I  drink. 

LABOISSIERE 

Pardieu !  this  time  you  shall  drink  because  /am 
thirsty. 


186  MERCEDES 

right.  She  should  have  her  share.  Place  aux 
dames!  A  cup,  somebody,  for  Madame  la  Dia- 
blesse ! 

MERCEDES,  aside 

Jose-Maria ! 

One  of  the  men  carries  wine  to  Ursula.  Mercedes  sits  on 
the  stool  beside  the  cradle,  resting  her  forehead  on  her 
palms.  Laboissiere  stretches  himself  on  the  settle.  Sev 
eral  soldiers  come  in,  and  fill  their  canteens  from  the  wine 
skin.  They  stand  in  groups,  talking  in  undertones  among 
themselves. 

URSULA  rises  from  her  chair 

The  drink  has  warmed  me  to  the  heart,  Mer 
cedes  !  Said  I  not  there  was  dancing  on  the  plaza  ? 
'T  is  but  a  step  from  here.  'T  would  do  these  old 
eyes  good  to  look  once  more  upon  the  dancers. 
The  music  drags  me  yonder !  (.Wanderingiy)  Nay, 
take  away  your  hands,  Mercedes  —  a  plague  upon 

ye  !  [Goes  out 

LABOISSIERE  suddenly  starts  to  his  feet  and  dashes  his  glass  on  the  floor 

The  child!  look  at  the  child!  What  is  the 
matter  with  it  ?  It  turns  livid  —  it  is  dying !  Com 
rades,  we  are  poisoned ! 

MERCEDES   rises  hastily  and  throws  her  mantilla  over  the  cradle 

Yes,  you  are  poisoned!  Al  fuego —  al fuego — 
todos  al 'fuego  71  You  to  perdition,  we  to  heaven ! 

[  The  soldiers  advance  towards  Mercedes 

1  To  the  flames  —  to  the  flames  —  all  of  you  to  the  flames  ! 


MERCEDES  187 

LABOISSIERE,  interposing 

Leave  her  to  me !  Quick,  some  of  you,  go  warn 
the  others  !  (Unsheathes  his  sword)  I  end  where  I  ought 
to  have  begun. 

MERCEDES,  tearing  aside  her  neckerchief 

Strike  here,  sefior.  .  .  . 


COUVOIS  enters,  and  halts  between  the  two  with  a  dazed  expression ;  he 
glances  front  Laboissiere  to  the  woman,  and  catches  his  breath 

Mercedes ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Louvois,  we  are  dead  men !  Beware  of  her,  she 
is  a  fiend  !  Kill  her  without  a  word  !  The  drink 
already  throttles  me  —  I  —  I  cannot  breathe  here. 

\Staggers  out,  followed  wildly  by  the  soldiers 


SCENE  IV 

Louvois,  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 
What  does  he  say  ? 

MERCEDES 

You  heard  him. 


188  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

His  words   have   no  sense.     (A dvanc»tg towards  he 
Oh,  why  are  you  in  this  place,  Mercedes  ? 

MERCEDES,  recoiling 

I  am  here,  sefior 

LOUVOIS 

You  call  me  sefior  —  you  shrink  from  me 


MERCEDES 

Because  we  Spaniards  do  not  desert  those  who 
depend  upon  us. 

LOUVOIS 

Is  that  a  reproach  ?  Ah,  cruel !  Have  you  for 
gotten  

MERCEDES 

I  have  forgotten  nothing.  I  have  had  cause  to 
remember  all.  I  remember,  among  the  rest,  that 
a  certain  wounded  French  officer  was  cared  for  in 
this  village  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  our  own  people 
—  and  now  he  returns  to  massacre  us. 

LOUVOIS 

Mercedes  ! 

MERCEDES 

I  remember  the  morning,  nearly  two  years  ago, 


MERCEDES  189 

when  Padre  Jose'f  brought  me  your  letter.  You 
had  stolen  away  in  the  night  —  like  a  deserter! 
Ah,  that  letter  —  how  it  pierced  my  heart,  and  yet 
bade  me  live  !  Because  it  was  full  of  those  smooth 
oaths  which  women  love,  I  carried  it  in  my  bosom 
for  a  twelvemonth ;  then  for  another  twelvemonth 
I  carried  it  because  I  hoped  to  give  it  back  to  you. 

(Takes  a  paper  from  her  bosom)  See,  SCfior,  what  slight 
things  WOrds  are!  (.Tears  the  paper  into  small  pieces,  which  she 
scatters  at  his  feet) 

LOUVOIS 

Ah! 

MERCEDES 

Sometimes  it  comforted  me  to  think  that  you 
were  dead.  Senor,  't  is  better  to  be  dead  than  false 
—  and  you  were  false ! 

LOUVOIS 

Not  I,  by  all  your  saints  and  mine !  It  is  you 
who  have  broken  faith.  I  should  be  the  last  of 
men  if  I  had  deserted  you.  Why,  even  a  dog  has 
gratitude.  How  could  I  now  look  you  in  the  face  ? 

MERCEDES 

'T  was  an  ill  day  you  first  did  so  1 

LOUVOIS 
Listen  to  me  1 


190  MERCEDES 

MERCEDES 

Too   many  times  I  have  listened.     Nay,  speak 
not ;  I  might  believe  you ! 


If  I  do  not  speak  the  truth,  despise  me  !  Since 
I  left  Arguano  I  have  been  at  Lisbon,  Irun,  Aran- 
juez,  among  the  mountains  —  I  know  not  where  j 
but  ever  in  some  spot  whence  it  was  impossible  to 
send  you  tidings.  A  wall  of  fire  and  steel  shut  me 
from  you.  Thrice  I  have  had  my  letters  brought 
back  to  me  —  with  the  bearers'  blood  upon  them ; 
thrice  I  have  trusted  to  messengers  whose  treachery 
I  now  discover.  For  a  chance  bit  of  worthless  gold 
they  broke  the  seals,  and  wrecked  our  lives !  Ah, 
Mercedes,  when  my  silence  troubled  you,  why  did 
you  not  read  the  old  letter  again  !  If  the  words  you 
had  of  mine  lost  their  value,  it  was  because  they 
were  like  those  jewels  in  the  padre's  story,  which 
changed  their  color  when  the  wearer  proved  un 
faithful. 

MERCEDES 

Aquilles ! 

LOUVOIS 

Though  I  could  not  come  to  you  nor  send  to 
you,  I  never  dreamed  I  was  forgotten.  I  used  to 
say  to  myself :  "  A  week,  a  month,  a  year  —  what 


MERCEDES  191 

does  it  matter?  That  brown  girl  is  as  true  as 
steel ! "  I  think  I  bore  a  charmed  life  in  those 
days ;  I  grew  to  believe  that  neither  sword  nor 
bullet  could  touch  me  until  I  held  you  in  my  arms 

again .  ( The  girl  stands  with  her  hands  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and 
looks  at  hint  with  a  growing  light  in  her  eyes)  It  Was  the  day 

before  yesterday  that  our  brigade  returned  to 
Burgos  —  at  last !  at  last !  O  love,  my  eyes  were 
hungry  for  you  !  Then  that  dreadful  order  came. 
Arguano  had  been  to  me  what  Mecca  is  to  the  Mo 
hammedan —  a  shrine  to  be  reached  through  toil 
and  thirst  and  death.  Oh,  what  a  grim  freak  it 
was  of  fate,  that  I  should  lead  a  column  against 
Arguano  —  my  shrine,  my  Holy  Land  ! 

Mercedes  moves  swiftly  across  the  room,  and  kneeling  on  the 
flag-stones  near  Louvois's  feet  begins  to  pick  up  the  frag 
ments  of  the  letter.  He  suddenly  stoops  and  takes  her  by 
the  wrists. 

Mercedes ! 

MERCEDES 

Ah,  but  I  was  so  unhappy!     Was  I  unhappy? 

I    forget.       (Looks  up  in  his  face  and  laughs)      It    is    SO    VCry 

long  ago !  An  instant  of  heaven  would  make  one 
forget  a  century  of  hell !  When  I  hear  your  voice, 
two  years  are  as  yesterday.  It  was  not  I,  but  some 
poor  girl  I  used  to  know  who  was  like  to  die  for 
you.  It  was  not  I  —  I  have  never  been  anything 
but  happy.  Nay,  I  needs  must  weep  a  little  for 


192  MERCEDES 

her,  the  days  were  so  heavy  to  that  poor  girl.     And 
when  you  go  away  again,  as  go  you  must 


I  shall  take  you  with  me,  Mercedes.  Do  you 
understand?  You  are  to  go  with  me  to  Burgos. 
(Aside)  What  a  blank  look  she  wears !  She  does 
not  seem  to  understand. 

MERCEDES,  abstractedly 

With  you  to  Burgos  ?  I  was  there  once,  in  the 
great  cathedral,  and  saw  the  bishops  in  their  golden 
robes,  and  all  the  jewelled  windows  ablaze  in  the 
sunset.  But  with  you  ?  Am  I  dreaming  this  ?  The 
very  room  has  grown  unfamiliar  to  me.  The  cru 
cifix  yonder,  at  which  I  have  knelt  a  hundred  times, 
was  it  always  there  ?  My  head  is  full  of  unwonted 
visions.  I  think  I  hear  music  and  the  sounds  of 
castanets,  like  poor  old  Ursula.  Those  cries  in 
the  calle  —  is  it  a  merry-meeting  ?  Ah !  what  a 
pain  struck  my  heart  then !  O  God !  I  had  for 
gotten  !  (Clutches  his  arm  and  pushes  him  from  her)  Have 

you  drunk  wine  this  day  ? 

LOUVOIS 

Why,  Mercedes,  how  strange  you  are ! 

MERCEDES 

No,  no  !  have  you  drunk  wine  ? 


MERCEDES  193 

LOUVOIS 

Well,  yes,  a  cup  without.  What  then?  How 
white  you  are ! 

MERCEDES 

Quick !  let  me  look  you  in  the  face.  I  wish  to 
tell  you  something.  You  loved  me  once  ...  it  was 
in  May  .  .  .  your  wound  is  quite  well  now  ?  No,  no, 
not  that !  All  things  slip  from  me.  Chiquita  —  nay, 
hold  me  closer,  I  do  not  see  you.  Into  the  sun 
light —  into  the  sunlight! 

LOUVOIS 
She  is  fainting ! 

MERCEDES 

I  am  dying  —  I  am  poisoned.  The  wine  was 
drugged  for  the  French.  'T  was  Pedro  Mendez  did 
it,  who  hated  all  Frenchmen  because  of  you.  I 
was  desperate.  Chiquita  —  there  in  the  cradle  — 
she  is  dead  —  and  I [Sink  down  at  hufttt 

LOUVOIS,  stooping  over  ktr 

Mercedes !  Mercedes ! 

After  an  interval  a  measured  tramp  is  heard  outside.    A  ser 
geant  with  a  file  of  soldiers  in  disorder  enters  the  hut. 


194  MERCEDES 

SCENE  V 
SERGEANT  and  SOLDIERS 

FIRST    SOLDIER 

Behold !  he  has  killed  the  murderess. 

SECOND    SOLDIER 

If  she  had  but  twenty  lives  now ! 

THIRD   SOLDIER 

That  would  not  bring  back  the  brave  Laboissiere 
and  the  rest. 

SECOND  SOLDIER 

Sapristi,  no !  but  it  would  give  us  life  for  life. 

FOURTH   SOLDIER 

Mise'ricorde  !  are  twenty 

SERGEANT 

Hold    your   peace,    all    Of   yOU  !       (Advances  and  salutes 
Louvois,  who  is  half  kneeling  beside  the  body  of  the  woman)       My 

captain !     (Aside)     He  does  not  answer  me.     (Lays  his 

hand  hurriedly  on  Louvois' s  shoulder  and  starts)       Silence,  there! 

and  stand  uncovered.     He  is  dying ! 

Curtain 


FOOTNOTES 

A  BOOK   OF   QUATRAINS 


TO   THE   READER 

READER,  you  must  take  this  verse 
As  you  take  to  wife  a  maiden 
With  her  faults  and  virtues  laden  - 
Both  for  better  and  for  worse. 


DAY   AND    NIGHT 

DAY  is  a  snow-white  Dove  of  heaven 
That  from  the  East  glad  message  brings : 
Night  is  a  stealthy,  evil  Raven, 
Wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  his  black  wings. 

MAPLE    LEAVES 

OCTOBER  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to  gold ; 
The  most  are  gone  now  ;  here  and  there  one  lingers : 
Soon  these  will  slip  from  out  the  twigs'  weak  hold, 
Like  coins  between  a  dying  miser's  fingers. 
195 


196  FOOTNOTES 

A   CHILD'S    GRAVE 

A  LITTLE  mound  with  chipped  headstone, 
The  grass,  ah  me  !  uncut  about  the  sward, 

Summer  by  summer  left  alone 
With  one  white  lily  keeping  watch  and  ward. 

PESSIMIST   AND    OPTIMIST 

THIS  one  sits  shivering  in  Fortune's  smile, 

Taking  his  joy  with  bated,  doubtful  breath. 
This  other,  gnawed  by  hunger,  all  the  while 
Laughs  in  the  teeth  of  Death. 

GRACE   AND   STRENGTH 

MANOAH'S  son,  in  his  blind  rage  malign 
Tumbling  the  temple  down  upon  his  foes, 
Did  no  such  feat  as  yonder  delicate  vine 
That  day  by  day  untired  holds  up  a  rose. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH 

To  him  that  hath,  we  are  told, 
Shall  be  given.     Yes,  by  the  Cross ! 
To  the  rich  man  fate  sends  gold, 
To  the  poor  man  loss  on  loss. 


FOOTNOTES  197 

MASKS 

BLACK  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  disguise 
And  shows  you  laughing  lips  and  roguish  eyes ; 
But  when,  unmasked,  gay  Comedy  appears, 
How  wan  her  cheeks  are,  and  what  heavy  tears  ! 

COQUETTE 

OR  light  or  dark,  or  short  or  tall, 
She  sets  a  springe  to  snare  them  all ; 
All 's  one  to  her  —  above  her  fan 
She  'd  make  sweet  eyes  at  Caliban. 

EPITAPHS 

Honest  fago.     When  his  breath  was  fled 
Doubtless  these  words  were  carven  at  his  head. 
Such  lying  epitaphs  are  like  a  rose 
That  in  unlovely  earth  takes  root  and  grows. 

POPULARITY 

SUCH  kings  of  shreds  have  wooed  and  won  her, 

Such  crafty  knaves  her  laurel  owned, 
It  has  become  almost  an  honor 
Not  to  be  crowned. 


198  FOOTNOTES 

CIRCUMSTANCE 

LINKED  to  a  clod,  harassed,  and  sad 
With  sordid  cares,  she  knew  not  life  was  sweet 
Who  should  have  moved  in  marble  halls,  and  had 

Kings  and  crown-princes  at  her  feet. 

SPENDTHRIFT 

THE  fault 's  not  mine,  you  understand  : 

God  shaped  my  palm  so  I  can  hold 
But  little  water  in  my  hand 
And  not  much  gold. 

THE   TWO    MASKS 

I  GAVE  my  heart  its  freedom  to  be  gay 
Or  grave  at  will,  when  life  was  in  its  May ; 
So  I  have  gone,  a  pilgrim  through  the  years, 
With  more  of  laughter  in  my  scrip  than  tears. 

MYRTILLA 

THIS  is  the  difference,  neither  more  nor  less, 

Between  Medusa's  and  Myrtilla's  face : 
The  former  slays  us  with  its  awfulness, 
The  latter  with  its  grace. 


FOOTNOTES  199 

ON    HER  BLUSHING 

Now  the  red  wins  upon  her  cheek  ; 

Now  white  with  crimson  closes 
In  desperate  struggle  —  so  to  speak, 
A  War  of  Roses. 


ON   A  VOLUME   OF   ANONYMOUS    POEMS 
ENTITLED    "A   MASQUE   OF   POETS" 

VAIN  is  the  mask.     Who  cannot  at  desire 
Name  every  Singer  in  the  hidden  choir  ? 
That  is  a  thin  disguise  which  veils  with  care 
The  face,  but  lets  the  changeless  heart  lie  bare. 


THE    DIFFERENCE 

SOME  weep  because  they  part, 
And  languish  broken-hearted, 
And  others  —  O  my  heart !  — 
Because  they  never  parted. 


ON    READING 

GREAT  thoughts  in  crude,  unshapely  verse  set  forth, 
Lose  half  their  preciousness,  and  ever  must. 
Unless  the  diamond  with  its  own  rich  dust 
Be  cut  and  polished,  it  seems  little  worth. 


200  FOOTNOTES 

THE   ROSE 

FIXED  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem, 
A  rose  she  wore  —  the  flower  June  made  for  her  ; 
Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  the  stem, 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much  happier. 


MOONRISE   AT   SEA 

UP  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep ; 
And  now  a  pallid,  haggard  face  lifts  she 
Above  the  water-line  :  thus  from  the  deep 
A  drowned  body  rises  solemnly. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET 

FROM  mask  to  mask,  amid  the  masquerade, 
Young  Passion  went  with  challenging,  soft  breath  : 
Art  Love  ?  he  whispered  ;  art  thou  Love,  sweet  maid  1 
Then  Love,  with  glittering  eyelids,  I  am  Death. 

HOSPITALITY 

WHEN  friends  are  at  your  hearthside  met, 
Sweet  courtesy  has  done  its  most 
If  you  have  made  each  guest  forget 
That  he  himself  is  not  the  host. 


FOOTNOTES  201 

HUMAN    IGNORANCE 

WHAT  mortal  knows 
Whence  come  the  tint  and  odor  of  the  rose  ? 

What  probing  deep 
Has  ever  solved  the  mystery  of  sleep  ? 

FROM    EASTERN    SOURCES 


IN  youth  my  hair  was  black  as  night, 
My  life  as  white  as  driven  snow : 
As  white  as  snow  my  hair  is  now, 
And  that  is  black  which  once  was  white. 


ii 

No  wonder  Hafiz  wrote  such  verses,  when 
He  had  the  bill  of  nightingale  for  pen ; 
Nor  that  his  lyrics  were  divine 
Whose  only  ink  was  tears  and  wine. 


in 

A  poor  dwarf's  figure,  looming  through  the  dense 
Mists  of  a  mountain,  seemed  a  shape  immense, 
On  seeing  which,  a  giant,  in  dismay, 
Took  to  his  heels  and  ran  away. 


200  FOOTNOTES 

THE   ROSE 

FIXED  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem, 
A  rose  she  wore  —  the  flower  June  made  for  her  ; 
Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  the  stem, 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much  happier. 


MOONRISE   AT   SEA 

UP  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep ; 
And  now  a  pallid,  haggard  face  lifts  she 
Above  the  water-line :  thus  from  the  deep 
A  drowned  body  rises  solemnly. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET 

FROM  mask  to  mask,  amid  the  masquerade, 
Young  Passion  went  with  challenging,  soft  breath: 
Art  Love  ?  he  whispered  ;  art  thou  Love,  sweet  maid  i 
Then  Love,  with  glittering  eyelids,  I  am  Death. 

HOSPITALITY 

WHEN  friends  are  at  your  hearthside  met, 
Sweet  courtesy  has  done  its  most 
If  you  have  made  each  guest  forget 
That  he  himself  is  not  the  host. 


FOOTNOTES  201 

HUMAN   IGNORANCE 

WHAT  mortal  knows 
Whence  come  the  tint  and  odor  of  the  rose  ? 

What  probing  deep 
Has  ever  solved  the  mystery  of  sleep  ? 

FROM    EASTERN    SOURCES 


IN  youth  my  hair  was  black  as  night, 
My  life  as  white  as  driven  snow  : 
As  white  as  snow  my  hair  is  now, 
And  that  is  black  which  once  was  white. 


ii 

No  wonder  Hafiz  wrote  such  verses,  when 
He  had  the  bill  of  nightingale  for  pen ; 
Nor  that  his  lyrics  were  divine 
Whose  only  ink  was  tears  and  wine. 


in 

A  poor  dwarf's  figure,  looming  through  the  dense 
Mists  of  a  mountain,  seemed  a  shape  immense, 
On  seeing  which,  a  giant,  in  dismay, 
Took  to  his  heels  and  ran  away. 


204  FOOTNOTES 

POINTS   OF   VIEW 

BONNET  in  hand,  obsequious  and  discreet, 

The  butcher  that  served  Shakespeare  with  his  meat 

Doubtless  esteemed  him  little,  as  a  man 

Who  knew  not  how  the  market  prices  ran. 

THE   GRAVE   OF   EDWIN    BOOTH 

IN  narrow  space,  with  Booth,  lie  housed  in  death 

lago,  Hamlet,  Shylock,  Lear,  Macbeth. 

If  still  they  seem  to  walk  the  painted  scene, 

'T  is  but  the  ghosts  of  those  that  once  have  been. 

QUITS 

IF  my  best  wines  mislike  thy  taste, 
And  my  best  service  win  thy  frown, 
Then  tarry  not,  I  bid  thee  haste ; 
There 's  many  another  Inn  in  town. 


JUDITH    AND    HOLOFERNES 


BOOK   I 
JUDITH   IN   THE  TOWER 

UNHERALDED,  like  some  tornado  loosed 
Out  of  the  brooding  hills,  it  came  to  pass 
That  Holofernes,  the  Assyrian, 
With  horse  and  foot  a  mighty  multitude, 
Crossed  the  Euphrates,  ravaging  the  land 
To  Esdraelon,  and  then  hawk-like  swooped 
On  Bethulia  :  there  his  trenches  drew, 
There  his  grim  engines  of  destruction  set 
And  stormed  the  place ;  and  gave  them  little  rest 
Within,  till  sad  their  plight  was ;  for  at  last 
The  wells  ran  low,  the  stores  of  barley  failed, 
And  famine  crept  on  them.     A  wheaten  loaf 
Was  put  in  this  scale  and  the  gold  in  that, 
So  scarce  was  bread.     Now  were  the  city  streets 
Grown  loud  with  lamentation,  women's  moans 
And  cries  of  children  ;  and  one  night  there  came 
The  plague,  with  breath  as  hot  as  the  simoom 
That  blows  the  desert  sand  to  flakes  of  fire. 
205 


206  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Yet  Holofernes  could  not  batter  down 
The  gates  of  bronze,  nor  decent  entrance  make 
With  beam  or  catapult  in  those  tough  walls, 
Nor  with  his  lighted  arrows  fire  the  roofs. 
Gnawing  his  lip,  among  the  tents  he  strode  — 
Woe  to  the  slave  that  stumbled  in  his  path !  — 
And  cursed  the  doting  gods,  who  gave  no  aid, 
But  slumbered  somewhere  in  their  house  of  cloud. 
Still  wan-cheeked  Famine  and  red-spotted  Pest 
Did  their  fell  work ;  these  twain  were  his  allies. 
So  he  withdrew  his  men  a  little  way 
Into  the  hill-land,  where  good  water  was, 
And  shade  of  trees  that  spread  their  forked  boughs 
Like  a  stag's  antlers.     There  he  pitched  his  tents 
On  the  steep  slope,  and  counted  the  slow  hours, 
Teaching  his  heart  such  patience  as  he  knew. 

At  midnight,  in  that  second  month  of  siege, 
Judith  had  climbed  into  a  mouldered  tower 
That  looked  out  on  the  vile  Assyrian  camp 
Stretched  on  the  slopes  beyond  an  open  plain. 
Here  did  she  come,  of  late,  to  think  and  pray. 
Below  her,  where  the  spiral  vapors  rose, 
The  army  like  a  witch's  caldron  seethed. 
At  times  she  heard  the  camels'  gurgling  moan, 
The  murmur  of  men's  tongues,  and  clank  of  arms 
Muffled  by  distance.    Through  the  tree-stems  shone 
The  scattered  watchfires,  lurid  fiends  of  night 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  207 

That  with  red  hands  reached  up  and  clutched  the 

dark ; 

And  now  and  then  as  some  mailed  warrior  strode 
Into  the  light,  she  saw  his  armor  gleam. 
The  city,  with  its  pestilential  breath, 
A  hive  of  woes,  lay  close  beneath  her  feet ; 
Above  her  leaned  the  sleepless  Pleiades. 

That  night  she  held  long  vigil  in  the  tower, 
Merari's  daughter,  dead  Manasseh's  wife, 
Who,  since  the  barley  harvest  when  he  died, 
Had  dwelt  three  years  a  widow  in  her  house, 
And  looked  on  no  man :  where  Manasseh  slept 
In  his  strait  sepulchre,  there  slept  her  heart. 
Yet  dear  to  her,  and  for  his  memory  dear, 
Was  Israel,  the  chosen  people,  now 
How  shorn  of  glory !     Hither  had  she  come 
To  pray  in  the  still  starlight,  far  from  those 
Who  watched  or  wept  in  the  sad  world  below ; 
And  in  the  midnight,  in  the  tower  alone, 
She  knelt  and  prayed  as  one  that  doubted  not : 

"  Oh,  are  we  not  Thy  children  who  of  old 
Trod  the  Chaldean  idols  in  the  dust, 
And  built  our  altars  only  unto  Thee  ? 

"  Didst  Thou  not  lead  us  into  Canaan 
For  love  of  us,  because  we  spurned  the  gods  ? 
Didst  Thou  not  shield  us  that  we  worshipped  Thee  ? 


208  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

"And  when  a  famine  covered  all  the  land, 
And  drove  us  into  Egypt,  where  the  King 
Did  persecute  Thy  chosen  to  the  death  — 

"  Didst  Thou  not  smite  the  swart  Egyptians  then, 
And  guide  us  through  the  bowels  of  the  deep 
That  swallowed  up  their  horsemen  and  their  King  ? 

"  For  saw  we  not,  as  in  a  wondrous  dream, 
The  up-tossed  javelins,  the  plunging  steeds, 
The  chariots  sinking  in  the  wild  Red  Sea  ? 

"  O  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  with  us  in  our  woe, 
And  from  Thy  bosom  Thou  hast  cast  us  forth, 
And  to  Thy  bosom  taken  us  again  : 

"  For  we  have  built  our  temples  in  the  hills 
By  Sinai,  and  on  Jordan's  sacred  banks, 
And  in  Jerusalem  we  worship  Thee. 

"  O  Lord,  look  down  and  help  us.     Stretch  Thy 

hand 

And  free  Thy  people.     Make  our  faith  as  steel, 
And  draw  us  nearer,  nearer  unto  Thee." 

Then  Judith  loosed  the  hair  about  her  brows, 
About  her  brows  the  long  black  tresses  loosed, 
And  bent  her  head,  and  wept  for  Israel. 
And  while  she  wept,  bowed  like  a  lotus  flower 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  209 

That  leans  to  its  own  shadow  in  the  Nile, 

A  strangest  silence  fell  upon  the  land ; 

Like  to  a  sea-mist  spreading  east  and  west 

It  spread,  and  close  on  this  there  came  a  sound 

Of  snow-soft  plumage  rustling  in  the  dark, 

And  voices  that  such  magic  whisperings  made 

As  the  sea  makes  at  twilight  on  a  strip 

Of  sand  and  pebble.     Slowly  from  her  knees 

Judith  arose,  but  dared  not  lift  her  eyes, 

Awed  with  the  sense  that  now  beside  her  stood 

A  God's  white  Angel,  though  she  saw  him  not, 

While  round  the  tower  a  winged  retinue 

In  the  wind's  eddies  drifted ;  then  the  world 

Crumbled  and  vanished,  and  nought  else  she  knew. 

The  Angel  stooped,  and  from  his  luminous  brow 

And  from  the  branch  of  amaranth  he  bore 

A  gleam  fell  on  her,  touching  eyes  and  lips 

With  light  ineffable,  and  she  became 

Fairer  than  morning  in  Arabia. 

On  cheek  and  brow  and  bosom  lay  such  tint 

As  in  the  golden  process  of  mid-June 

Creeps  up  the  slender  stem  to  dye  the  rose. 

Then  silently  the  Presence  spread  his  vans. 

Like  one  that  from  a  lethargy  awakes 

The  Hebrew  woman  started  :  in  the  tower 

No  winged  thing  was,  save  on  a  crossbeam 

A  twittering  sparrow  ;  from  the  underworld 

Came  sounds  of  pawing  hoof,  and  clink  of  steel ; 

And  where  the  black  horizon  blackest  lay 


210  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

A  moment  gone,  a  thread  of  purple  ran 

That  changed  to  rose,  and  then  to  sudden  gold. 

And  Judith  stood  bewildered,  with  flushed  cheek 
Pressed   to   the   stone-work.     When  she  knelt  to 

pray 

It  was  dead  night,  and  now  't  was  break  of  dawn  ; 
Yet  had  not  sleep  upon  her  eyelids  set 
Its  purple  seal.     In  this  strange  interval 
Of  void  or  trance,  or  slumber-mocking  death, 
What  had  befallen  ?     As  a  skein  of  flax, 
Dropped  by  a  weaver  seated  at  his  loom, 
Lies  in  a  tangle,  and  but  knots  the  more, 
And  slips  the  fingers  seeking  for  the  clue : 
So  all  her  thought  lay  tangled  in  her  brain, 
And  what  had  chanced  eluded  memory. 

Now  was  day  risen  ;  on  the  green  foothills 
Men  were  in  motion,  and  such  life  as  was 
In  the  sad  city  dragged  itself  to  light. 
Then  Judith  turned,  and  slowly  down  the  stair 
Descended  to  the  court.     Outside  the  gate, 
In  the  broad  sun,  lounged  Achior,  lately  fled 
From  Holofernes ;  as  she  passed  she  spoke  : 
"  The  Lord  be  with  thee,  Achior,  all  thy  days." 
And  Achior  —  captain  of  the  Ammonites, 
In  exile,  but  befriended  of  the  Jews  —   * 
Paused,  and  looked  after  her  with  pensive  eyes. 
Unknown  of  any  one,  these  many  months 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  211 

His  corselet  held  a  hopeless  tender  heart 

For  dead  Manasseh's  wife  —  too  fair  she  was, 

And  rich  —  this  day  how  wonderfully  fair  ! 

But  she,  unheedful,  crossed  the  tile-paved  court, 

And  passing  through  an  archway  reached  the  place 

Where  underneath  an  ancient  aloe-tree 

Sat  Chabris  with  Ozias  and  his  friend 

Charmis,  patriarchs  of  the  leaguered  town. 

There  Judith  halted,  and  obeisance  made 
With  hands  crossed  on  her  breast,   as  was  most 

meet, 

They  being  aged  men  and  governors. 
And  as  she  bent  before  them  where  they  sate, 
They  marvelled  much  that  in  that  stricken  town 
Was  one  face  left  not  hunger-pinched,  or  wan, 
With  grief's  acquaintance  :  such  was  Judith's  face. 
And   white-haired   Charmis   looked   on    her,    and 

said : 
"  This  woman  walketh  in  the  light  of  God." 

"  Would  it   were  so  !  "  said  Judith.     "  I   know 

not ; 

But  this  I  know,  that  where  faith  is,  is  light. 
Let  us  not  doubt  Him  !     If  we  doubt  we  die. 
Oh,  is  it  true,  Ozias,  thou  hast  mind 
To  yield  the  city  to  our  enemies 
After  five  days,  unless  the  Lord  shall  stoop 
From  heaven  to  save  us  ?  " 


212  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  Ozias  said : 

"  Our  young  men  perish  on  the  battlements ; 
Our  wives  and  children  by  the  empty  wells 
Lie  down  and  perish." 

"  If  we  doubt  we  die. 
But  whoso  trusts  in  God,  as  Isaac  did, 
Though  suffering  greatly  even  to  the  end, 
Dwells  in  a  citadel  upon  a  rock ; 
Wave  shall  not  reach  it,  nor  fire  topple  down." 

"  Our  young  men  perish  on  the  battlements," 
Answered  Ozias  ;  "  by  the  dusty  tanks, 
Our  wives  and  children." 

"  They  shall  go  and  dwell 
With  Seers  and  Prophets  in  eternal  life. 
Is  there  no  God  ? " 

"  One  only,"  Chabris  spoke, 
"  But  now  His  face  is  turned  aside  from  us. 
He  sees  not  Israel." 

"  Is  His  mercy  less 

Than  Holofernes'  ?     Shall  we  place  our  trust 
In  this  fierce  bull  of  Asshur  ?  " 

"  Five  days  more," 
Said  old  Ozias,  "  we  shall  trust  in  God." 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  213 

"  Ah !     His  time  is  not  man's  time,"  Judith  cried, 
"  And  why  should  we,  the  dust  beneath  His  feet, 
Decide  the  hour  of  our  deliverance, 
Saying  to  Him  :   Thus  shalt  Thou  do,  and  so  ? 
Ozias,  thou  to  whom  the  heart  of  man 
Is  as  a  scroll  illegible,  dost  thou 
Pretend  to  read  the  mystery  of  God  ?  " 

Then  gray  Ozias  bowed  his  head,  abashed, 
And   spoke   not ;    but    the   white-haired   Charmis 

spoke : 

"  The  woman  sayeth  wisely.     We  are  wrong 
That  in  our  anguish  mock  the  Lord  our  God, 
Staff  that  we  rest  on,  stream  whereat  we  drink !  " 
And  then  to  Judith :    "  Child,  what  wouldst  thou 
have  ? " 

"  I  cannot  answer  thee,  nor  make  it  plain 
In  my  own  thought.     This  night  I  had  a  dream 
Not  born  of  sleep,  for  both  my  eyes  were  wide, 
My  sense  alive  —  a  vision,  if  thou  wilt, 
Of  which  the  scattered  fragments  in  my  mind 
Are  as  the  fragments  of  a  crystal  vase 
That,  slipping  from  the  slave-girl's  careless  hand, 
Falls  on  the  marble.     No  most  cunning  skill 
Shall  join  the  pieces  and  make  whole  the  vase. 
So  with  my  vision.     I  seem  still  to  hear 
Strange  voices  round  me,  inarticulate  — 
Words  shaped  and  uttered  by  invisible  lips ; 


214  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

At  whiles  there  seems  a  palm  close  pressed  to  mine 

That  fain  would  lead  me  somewhere.     I  know  not 

What  all  portends.     Some  great  event  is  near. 

Last  night  celestial  spirits  were  on  wing 

Over  the  city.     As  I  sat  alone 

Within  the  tower,  upon  the  stroke  of  twelve  — 

Look,  look,  Ozias  !     Charmis,  Chabris,  look  ! 

See  ye  not,  yonder,  a  white  mailed  hand 

That  with  its  levelled  finger  points  through  air ! " 

The  three  old  men,  with  lifted,  startled  eyes, 
Turned,  and  beheld  on  the  transparent  void 
A  phantom  hand  in  silver  gauntlet  clad 
With  stretched  forefinger ;  and  they  spake  no  word, 
But  in  the  loose  folds  of  their  saffron  robes 
Their  wan  and  meagre  faces  muffled  up, 
And  sat  there,  like  those  statues  which  the  wind 
Near  some  old  city  on  a  desert's  edge 
Wraps  to  the  brow  in  cerements  of  red  dust. 

After  a  silence  Judith  softly  said : 
"  'T  is  gone !     Fear  not ;  it  was  a  sign  to  me, 
To  me  alone.     Ozias,  didst  thou  mark 
The  way  it  pointed  ?  —  to  the  Eastern  Gate  ! 
Send  the  guard  orders  not  to  stay  me  there. 

0  question  not !     I  but  obey  the  sign. 

1  must  go  hence.     Before  the  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  courtyard  thrice,  I  shall  return, 
Else  shall  men's  eyes  not  look  upon  me  more. 
What  darkness  lies  between  this  hour  and  that 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  215 

Tongue  may  not  say.     The  thing  I  can  I  will, 
Leaning  on  God,  remembering  what  befell 
Jacob  in  Syria  when  he  fed  the  flocks 
Of  Laban,  and  how  Isaac  in  his  day, 
And  Abraham,  were  chastened  by  the  Lord. 
Wait  thou  in  patience ;  till  I  come,  keep  thou 
The  sanctuaries."     And  the  three  gave  oath 
To  hold  the  town ;  and  if  they  held  it  not, 
Then  should  she  find  them  in  the  synagogue 
Dead  near  the  sacred  ark ;  the  spearmen  dead 
At  the  four  gates ;  upon  the  battlements 
The  archers  bleaching.     "  Be  it  so,"  she  said, 
"  Yet  be  it  not  so !     Shield  me  with  thy  prayers !  " 

Then  Judith  made  obeisance  as  before, 
Passed  on,  and  left  them  pondering  her  words 
And  that  weird  spectre  hand  in  silver  mail, 
Which,  vanishing,  had  left  a  moth-like  glow 
Against  the  empty,  unsubstantial  air. 
Still  were  their  eyes  fixed  on  it  in  mute  awe. 

When  Judith  gained  her  room  in  the  dull  court, 
Where  all  the  houses  in  the  shadow  lay 
Of  the  great  synagogue,  she  threw  aside 
The  livery  of  grief,  and  in  her  hair 
Braided  a  thread  of  opals,  on  her  breasts 
Poured  precious  ointment,  and  put  on  the  robe 
That  in  a  chest  of  camphor-wood  had  lain 
Unworn  since  she  was  wed  —  the  rustling  robe, 
Heavy  with  vine-work,  delicate  flower  and  star, 


216  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  looped  at  the  brown  shoulder  with  a  pearl 
To  ransom  princes.     Had  he  seen  her  then, 
The  sad  young  captain  of  the  Ammonites, 
Had  he  by  chance  but  seen  her  as  she  stood 
Clasping  her  girdle,  it  had  been  despair ! 

Then  Judith  veiled  her  face,  and  took  her  scarf, 
And  wrapped  the  scarf  about  her,  and  went  forth 
Into  the  street  with  Marah,  the  handmaid. 
It  was  the  hour  when  all  the  wretched  folk 
Haunted  the  market-stalls  to  get  such  scraps 
As  famine  left ;  the  rich  bazaars  were  closed, 
Those  of  the  cloth-merchants  and  jewellers ; 
But  to  the  booths  where  aught  to  eat  was  had, 
The  starving  crowds  converged,  vociferous. 
Thus  at  that  hour  the  narrow  streets  were  thronged. 
And  as  in  summer  when  the  bearded  wheat, 
With  single  impulse  leaning  all  one  way, 
Follows  the  convolutions  of  the  wind, 
And  parts  to  left  or  right,  as  the  wind  veers : 
So  went  men's  eyes  with  Judith,  so  the  crowd 
Parted  to  give  her  passage.     On  she  pressed 
Through  noisome  lanes  where  poverty  made  lair, 
By  stately  marble  porticos  pressed  on 
To  the  East  Gate,  a  grille  of  triple  bronze, 
That  lifted  at  her  word,  and  then  shut  down 
With  horrid  clangor.     The  crude  daylight  there 
Dazed  her  an  instant ;  then  she  set  her  face 
Towards  Holofernes'  camp  in  the  hill-land. 


BOOK  II 
THE  CAMP  OF  ASSHUR 

O  SADDENED  Muse,  sing  not  of  that  rough  way 
Her  light  feet  trod  among  the  flints  and  thorns, 
Where  some  chance  arrow  might  have  stained  her 

breast, 

And  death  lay  coiled  in  the  slim  viper's  haunt ; 
Nor  how  the  hot  sun  tracked  them  till  they  reached, 
She  and  her  maid,  a  place  of  drooping  boughs 
Cooled  by  a  spring  set  in  a  cup  of  moss, 
And  bathed  their  cheeks,  and  gathered  mulberries, 
And  at  the  sudden  crackling  of  a  twig 
Were  wellnigh  dead  with  fear :  sing,  rather,  now 
Of  Holofernes,  stretched  before  his  tent 
Upon  the  spotted  hide  of  that  wild  beast 
He  slew  beside  the  Ganges,  he  alone 
With  just  his  dagger;  from  the  jungle  there 
The  creature  leapt  on  him,  and  tore  his  throat, 
In  the  dim  starlight :  that  same  leopard  skin 
Went  with  him  to  all  wars.     This  day  he  held 
A  council  of  the  chiefs.     Close  at  his  feet 
His  iron  helmet  trailed  on  the  sere  grass 
Its  horsehair  plume  —  a  Hindu  maiden's  hair, 
217 


218  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Men  whispered  under  breath ;  and  from  his  lance, 
The  spear  set  firmly  in  the  sun-scorched  earth 
Where  he  had  thrust  it,  hung  his  massive  shield. 
Upon  the  shield  a  dragon  was,  with  eyes 
Of  sea-green  emeralds,  which  caught  the  light 
And  flashed  it  back,  and  seemed  a  thing  that  lived. 

There  lay  the  Prince  of  Asshur,  with  his  chin 
Propped  on  one  hand,  and  the  gaunt  captains  ranged 
In  groups  about  him;  men  from  Kurdistan, 
Men  from  the  Indus,  and  the  salt-sea  dunes, 
And  those  bleak  snow-lands  that  to  northward  lie  — 
A  motley  conclave,  now  in  hot  debate 
Whether  to  press  the  siege  or  wait  the  end. 
And  one  said  :  "  Lo  !  the  fruit  is  ripe  to  fall, 
Let  us  go  pluck  it ;  better  to  lie  dead, 
Each  on  his  shield,  than  stay  here  with  no  grain 
To  feed  the  mares,  and  no  bread  left."    "  The  moat 
Is  wide,"  said  one,  "  and  many  are  the  spears, 
And  stout  the  gates.     Have  we  not  tried  our  men 
Against  the  well-set  edges  of  those  spears  ? 
Note  how  the  ravens  wheel  in  hungry  files 
Above  the  trenches,  and  straight  disappear. 
See  where  they  rise,  red-beaked  and  surfeited ! 
Has  it  availed  ?     The  city  stands.     Within 
There  's  that  shall  gnaw  its  heart  out,  if  we  wait, 
And  bide  the  sovran  will  of  the  wise  gods." 
Some  of  the  younger  captains  made  assent, 
But  others  scowled,  and   mocked   them,  and  one 
cried : 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  219 

"  Ye  should  have  tarried  by  the  river's  bank 

At  home,  and  decked  your  hair  with  butterflies 

Like  the  king's  harlots.     Little  use  are  ye." 

"  Nay,"  cried  another,  "they  did  well  to  come ; 

They  have  their  uses.     When  our  meat  is  gone 

We  '11  even  feed  upon  the  tender  flesh 

Of  these  tame  girls,  who,  though  they  dress  in  steel, 

Like  more  the  tremor  of  a  cithern  string 

Than  the  shrill  whistle  of  an  arrowhead." 

Death  lay  in  lighter  spoken  words  than  these, 
And  quick  hands  sought  the  hilt,  and  spears  were 

poised, 

And  they  had  one  another  slain  outright, 
These  fiery  lords,  when  suddenly  each  blade 
Slipped  back  to  sheath,  and  the  pale  captains  stood 
Transfixed,  beholding  in  their  very  midst 
A  woman  whose  exceeding  radiance 
Of  brow  and  bosom  made  her  garments  seem 
Threadbare  and  lustreless,  yet  whose  attire 
Outshone  the  purples  of  a  Persian  queen 
That  decks  her  for  some  feast,  or  makes  her  rich 
To  welcome  back  from  war  her  lord  the  king. 

For  Judith,  who  knew  all  the  hillside  paths 
As  one  may  know  the  delicate  azure  veins 
That  branch  and  cross  on  his  beloved's  wrist, 
Had  passed  the  Tartar  guards  in  the  thick  wood, 
And  gained  the  camp's  edge,  and  there  stayed  her 
steps, 


220  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Appalled  at  sight  of  all  those  angry  lords, 
But  taking  heart,  had  noiselessly  approached, 
And  stood  among  them,  unperceived  till  then. 
Now  on  the  air  arose  such  murmurous  sound 
As  when  a  swarm  of  honey-bees  in  June 
Rises,  and  hangs  mist-like  above  the  hives, 
And  fills  the  air  with  its  sweet  monotone. 
The  Prince  of  Asshur  knew  not  what  it  meant, 
And  springing  to  his  feet,  thrust  back  the  chiefs 
That  hampered  him,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice  : 
"  Who  breaks  upon  our  councils  ? "     Then  his  eyes 
Discovered  Judith.     As  in  a  wild  stretch 
Of  silt  and  barren  rock,  a  gracious  flower, 
Born  of  the  seed  some  bird  of  passage  dropped, 
Leans  from  the  stem  and  with  its  beauty  lights 
The  lonely  waste,  so  Judith,  standing  there, 
Seemed  to  illumine  all  the  dismal  camp, 
And  Holofernes'  voice  took  softer  tone : 
"Whence    comest    thou  —  thy   station,    and    thy 
name  ? " 

"  Merari's  daughter,  dead  Manasseh's  wife, 
Judith.     I  come  from  yonder  hapless  town." 

"Methought   the   phantom   of   some   murdered 

queen 

From  the  dead  years  had  risen  at  my  feet ! 
If  these  Samarian  women  are  thus  shaped, 
O  my  brave  Captains,  let  not  one  be  slain  !  — 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  221 

What  seekest  thou  within  the  hostile  lines 
Of  Asshur  ?  " 

"  Holofernes." 

"  This  is  he." 

"  O  good  my  Lord,"  cried  Judith,  "  if  indeed 
Thou  art  that  Holofernes  whom  I  seek, 
And  dread,  in  truth,  to  find,  low  at  thy  feet 
Behold  thy  handmaid  who  in  fear  has  flown 
From  a  doomed  people." 

"  If  this  thing  be  so, 

Thou  shalt  have  shelter  of  our  tents,  and  food, 
And  meet  observance,  though  our  enemy. 
Touching  thy  people,  they  with  tears  of  blood, 
And  ashes  on  their  heads,  shall  rue  the  hour 
They  brought  not  tribute  to  the  lord  of  all, 
The  king  at  Nineveh.     But  thou  shalt  live." 

"  O  good  my  lord,"  said  Judith,  "  as  thou  wilt 
So  would  thy  servant.     And  I  pray  thee  now 
Let  them  that  listen  stand  awhile  aside, 
For  I  have  that  for  thine  especial  ear 
Of  import  to  thee." 

Then  the  chiefs  fell  back 
Under  the  trees,  and  leaned  on  their  huge  shields, 


222  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Eyeing  the  Hebrew  woman  whose  sweet  looks 
Brought  them  home-thoughts  and  visions  of  their 

wives 

In  that  far  land  they  might  not  see  again. 
And  Judith  spoke,  and  they  strained  ear  to  catch. 
Her  words ;  but  only  the  soft  voice  was  theirs  : 

"  My  lord,  if  yet  thou  boldest  in  thy  thought 
The  words  which  Achior  the  Ammonite 
Once  spake  to  thee  concerning  Israel, 
O  treasure  them  ;  no  guile  was  in  those  words. 
True  is  it,  master,  that  our  people  kneel 
To  an  unseen  but  not  an  unknown  God  : 
By  day  and  night  He  watches  over  us, 
And  while  we  worship  Him  we  cannot  fall, 
Our  tabernacles  shall  be  unprofaned, 
Our  spears  invincible  ;  but  if  we  sin, 
If  we  transgress  the  law  by  which  we  live, 
Our  sanctuaries  shall  be  desecrate, 
Our  tribes  thrust  forth  into  the  wilderness, 
Scourged  and  accursed.     Therefore,  O  my  lord, 
Seeing  this  nation  wander  from  the  faith 
Taught  of  the  Prophets,  I  have  fled  dismayed. 
Heed,  Holof ernes,  what  I  speak  this  day, 
And  if  the  thing  I  tell  thee  prove  not  true, 
Let  not  thy  falchion  tarry  in  its  sheath, 
But  seek  my  heart.     Why  should   thy  handmaid 

live, 
Having  deceived  thee,  thou  the  crown  of  men  ? " 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  223 

She  spoke,  and  paused  ;  and  sweeter  on  his  ear 
Was  Judith's  voice  than  ever  to  him  seemed 
The  silver  laughter  of  the  Assyrian  girls 
In  the  bazaars,  or  when  in  the  cool  night, 
After  the  sultry  heat  of  the  long  day, 
They  came  down  to  the  river  with  their  lutes. 
The  ceaseless  hum  that  rose  from  the  near  tents, 
The  neighing  of  the  awful  battle-steeds, 
The  winds  that  sifted  through  the  fronded  palms 
He  heard  not ;  only  Judith's  voice  he  heard. 

"  O  listen,  Holofernes,  my  sweet  lord, 
And  thou  shalt  rule  not  only  Bethulia, 
Rich  with  its  hundred  altars'  crusted  gold, 
But  Cades-Barne  and  Jerusalem, 
And  all  the  vast  hill-land  to  the  blue  sea. 
For  I  am  come  to  give  into  thy  hand 
The  key  of  Israel  —  Israel  now  no  more, 
Since  she  disowns  the  Prophets  and  her  God." 

"  Speak,  for  I  needs  must  listen  to  these  things." 

"  Know  then,  O  prince,  it  is  our  yearly  use 
To  lay  aside  the  first  fruits  of  the  grain, 
And  so  much  oil,  so  many  skins  of  wine, 
Which,  being  sanctified,  are  held  intact 
For  the  High  Priests  who  serve  before  our  Lord 
In  the  great  temple  at  Jerusalem. 
This  holy  food  —  which  even  to  touch  is  death  — 


224  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

The  rulers,  sliding  from  their  ancient  faith, 
Fain  would  lay  hands  on,  being  wellnigh  starved ; 
And  they  have  sent  a  runner  to  the  Priests 
(The  Jew  Abijah,  who,  at  dead  of  night, 
Shot  like  a  javelin  between  thy  guards), 
Bearing  a  parchment  begging  that  the  Church 
Yield  them  permit  to  eat  the  sacred  corn. 
But  't  is  not  lawful  they  should  do  this  thing, 
Yet  will  they  do  it.     Then  shalt  thou  behold 
The  archers  tumbling  headlong  from  the  walls, 
Their  strength  gone  from  them ;  thou  shalt  see  the 

spears 

Splitting  like  reeds  within  the  spearmen's  hands, 
And  the  strong  captains  tottering  like  old  men 
Stricken  with  palsy.     Then,  O  mighty  prince, 
Then  with  thy  trumpets  blaring  doleful  dooms, 
And  thy  proud  banners  waving  in  the  wind, 
With  squares  of  men  and  eager  clouds  of  horse 
Thou  shalt  sweep  down  on  them,  and  strike  them 

dead! 

But  now,  my  lord,  before  this  come  to  pass, 
Three  days  must  wane,  for  they  touch  not  the  food 
Until  the  Jew  Abijah  shall  return 
With  the  Priests'  message.     Here  among  thy  hosts, 
O  Holofernes,  would  I  dwell  the  while, 
Asking  but  this,  that  I  and  my  handmaid 
Each  night,  at  the  sixth  hour,  may  egress  have  re 
Unto  the  valley,  there  to  weep  and  pray 
That  God  forsake  this  nation  in  its  sin. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  225 

And  as  my  prophecy  prove  true  or  false, 
So  be  it  with  me." 

Judith  ceased,  and  stood 

With  hands  crossed  on  her   breast,  and  face  up 
raised. 

And  Holofernes  answered  not  at  first, 
But  bent  his  eyes  on  the  uplifted  face, 
And  mused,  and  then  made  answer :  "  Be  it  so. 
Thou  shalt  be  free  to  go  and  come,  and  none 
Shall  stay  thee,  nor  molest  thee,  these  three  days. 
And  if,  O  pearl  of  women,  the  event 
Prove  not  a  dwarf  beside  the  prophecy, 
Then  hath  the  sun  not  looked  upon  thy  like ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  as  honey  on  men's  lips, 
And  in  their  memory  fragrant  as  a  spice. 
Music  shall  wait  on  thee ;  crowns  shalt  thou  have, 
And  jewel  chests  of  costly  sandal-wood, 
And  robes  in  texture  like  the  ring-dove's  throat, 
And  milk-white  mares,  and  slaves,  and  chariots 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me  in  Nineveh, 
In  Nineveh,  the  City  of  the  Gods." 

Then  on  her  cheek  the  ripe  blood  of  her  race 
Faltered  an  instant.     "  Even  as  thou  wilt 
So  would  thy  servant."     Thereupon  the  slaves 
Brought   meat  and  wine,  and   placed   them   in   a 

tent, 
A  green  pavilion  standing  separate 


226  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Hard  by  the  brook,  for  Judith  and  her  maid. 
But  Judith  ate  not,  saying  :  "  Master,  no. 
It  is  not  lawful  that  we  taste  of  these ; 
My  maid  has  brought  a  pouch  of  parched  corn, 
And  bread  and  figs  and  wine  of  our  own  land, 
Which  shall  not  fail  us."     Holofernes  said, 
"  So  let  it  be,"  and  pushing  back  the  screen 
Passed  out,  and  left  them  sitting  in  the  tent. 

And  when  they  were  alone  within  the  tent, 
"O  Marah,"  cried  the  mistress,  "do  I  dream? 
Is  this  the  dread  Assyrian  rumor  paints, 
He  who  upon  the  plains  of  Ragau  smote 
The  hosts  of  King  Arphaxad,  and  despoiled 
Sidon  and  Tyrus,  and  left  none  unslain  ? 
Gentle  is  he  we  thought  so  terrible, 
Whose  name  we  stilled  unruly  children  with 
At  bedtime  —    See  !  the  Bull  of  Asshur  comes  ! 
And  all  the  little  ones  would  straight  to  bed. 
Is  he  not  statured  as  should  be  a  king  ? 
Beside  our  tallest  captain  this  grave  prince 
Towers  like  the  palm  above  the  olive-tree. 
A  gentle  prince,  with  gracious  words  and  ways." 
And  Marah  said :  "  A  gentle  prince  he  is  — 
To  look  on  ;  I  misdoubt  his  ways  and  words." 
"  And  I,  O  Marah,  I  would  trust  him  not !  " 
And  Judith  laid  her  cheek  upon  her  arm 
With  a  quick  laugh,  and  like  to  diamonds 
Her  white  teeth  shone  between  the  parted  lips. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  227 

Now  Holofernes  held  himself  aloof 
That  day,  spoke  little  with  his  chiefs,  nor  cared 
To  watch  the  athletes  at  their  games  of  strength 
Under  the  cedars,  as  his  custom  was, 
But  in  a  grove  of  clustered  tamarisk  trees 
On  the  camp's  outer  limit  walked  alone, 
Save  for  one  face  that  haunted  the  blue  air, 
Save  for  one  voice  that  murmured  at  his  ear. 
There,  till  the  twilight  flooded  the  low  lands 
And  the  stars  came,  these  kept  him  company. 

The  word  of  Judith's  beauty  had  spread  wide 
Through  the  gray  city  that  stretched  up  the  slope ; 
And  as  the  slow  dusk  gathered  many  came 
From  far  encampments,  on  some  vain  pretext, 
To  pass  the  green  pavilion  —  long-haired  men 
That  dwelt  by  the  Hydaspes,  and  the  sons 
Of  the  Elymeans,  and  slim  Tartar  youths, 
And  folk  that  stained  their  teeth  with  betel-nut 
And  wore  rough  goatskin,  herdsmen  of  the  hills ; 
But  saw  not  Judith,  who  from  common  air 
Was  shut,  and  none  might  gaze  upon  her  face. 

But  when  the   night  fell,  and  the  camps  were 

still, 

And  nothing  moved  beneath  the  icy  stars 
In  their  blue  bourns,  save  some  tall  Kurdish  guard 
That  stalked  among  the  cedars,  Judith  called 
And  wakened  Marah,  and  the  sentinel 


228  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Drew  back,  and  let  them  pass  beyond  the  lines 

Into  the  plain  ;  and  Judith's  heart  was  full 

Seeing  the  watchfires  burning  on  the  towers 

Of  her  own  city.     As  a  hundred  years 

The  hours  seemed  since  she  stood  within  its  walls, 

Her  heart  so  yearned  to  it.     Here  on  the  sand 

The  two  knelt  down  in  prayer,  and  Marah  thought : 

"  How  is  it  we  should  come  so  far  to  pray  ?  " 

Not  knowing  Judith's  cunning  that  had  gained 

By  this  device  free  passage  to  and  fro 

Between  the  guards.     When  they  had  prayed,  they 

rose 
And  went  through  the  black  shadows  back  to  camp. 

One  cresset  twinkled  dimly  in  the  tent 
Of  Holof ernes,  and  Bagoas,  his  slave, 
Lay  on  a  strip  of  matting  at  the  door, 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  sleep.     Not  so  his  lord 
On  the  soft  leopard  skin  ;  a  fitful  sleep 
Was  his  this  night,  tormented  by  a  dream 
That  ever  waked   him.      Through   the  curtained 

air 

A  tall  and  regal  figure  came  and  went ; 
At  times  a  queen's  bright  diadem  pressed  down 
The  bands  of  perfumed   hair,  and  gold -wrought 

stuffs 

Rustled  ;  at  times  the  apparition  stood 
Draped  only  in  a  woven  mist  of  veils, 
Like  the  king's  dancing-girls  at  Nineveh. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  229 

And  once  it  stole  to  his  couch  side,  and  stooped 
And  touched  his  brow  with  tantalizing  lip, 
Undoing  all  the  marvel  of  the  dream  ; 
For  Holofernes  turned  then  on  the  couch, 
Sleep  fled  his  eyelids,  and  would  come  no  more. 


BOOK   III 
THE   FLIGHT 

ON  the  horizon,  as  the  prow  of  Dawn 

Ploughed  through  the  huddled  clouds,  a  wave  of 

gold 

Went  surging  up  the  dark,  and  breaking  there 
Dashed  its  red  spray  against  the  cliffs  and  spurs, 
But  left  the  valley  in  deep  shadow  still. 
And  still  the  mist  above  the  Asshur  camp 
Hung  in  white  folds,  and  on  the  pendent  boughs 
The   white   dew   hung.     While   yet   no   bird   had 

moved 

A  wing  in  its  dim  nest,  the  wakeful  prince 
Rose   from   the  couch,  and  wrapped  in  his   long 

cloak 

Stepped  over  the  curved  body  of  the  slave, 
And  thridding  moodily  the  street  of  tents 
Came  to  the  grove  of  clustered  tamarisk  trees 
Where   he   had   walked   and   mused    the   bygone 

day. 

Here  on  a  broken  ledge  he  sat  him  down, 
Soothed  by  the  morning  scent  of  flower  and  herb 
230 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  231 

And  the  cool  vintage  of  the  unbreathed  air ; 
And  presently  the  sleep  that  night  denied 
The  gray  dawn  brought  him ;  and  he  slept  and 
dreamed. 

Before  him  rose  the  pinnacles  and  domes 
Of  Nineveh  ;  he  walked  the  streets,  and  heard 
The  chatter  of  the  merchants  in  the  booths 
Pricing  their  wares,  the  water-seller's  cry, 
The  flower-girl's  laugh  —  a  festival  it  seemed, 
In  honor  of  some  conqueror  or  god, 
For  cloths  of  gold  and  purple  tissues  hung 
From  frieze  and  peristyle,  and  cymbals  clashed, 
And  the  long  trumpets  sounded  :  now  he  breathed 
The  airs  of  a  great  river  sweeping  down 
Past  ruined  temples  and  the  tombs  of  kings, 
And  heard  the  wash  of  waves  on  a  vague  coast. 
Then,  in  the  swift  transition  of  a  dream, 
He  found  himself  in  a  damp  catacomb 
Searching  by  torchlight  for  his  own  carved  name 
On  a  sarcophagus  ;  and  as  he  searched 
A  group  of  wailing  shapes  drew  slowly  near  — 
The  hates  and  cruel  passions  of  his  youth 
Become  incorporate  and  immortal  things, 
With  tongue  to  blazon  his  eternal  guilt ; 
And  on  him  fell  strange  terror,  who  had  known 
Neither  remorse  nor  terror,  and  he  sprang 
Upon  his  feet,  and  broke  from  out  the  spell, 
Clutching  his  sword-hilt ;  and  before  him  stood 


232  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Bagoas,  the  eunuch,  bearing  on  his  head 
An  urn  just  filled  at  the  clear  brook  hard  by. 

Then  Holofernes  could  have  struck  the  slave 
Dead  in  his  path  —  what  man  had  ever  seen 
The  Prince  of  Asshur  tremble  ?     But  he  turned 
Back  to  the  camp,  and  the  slave  followed  on 
At  heel,  grown  sullen  also,  like  a  hound 
That  takes  each  color  of  his  master's  mood. 
And  when  the  two  had  reached  the  tent,  the  prince 
Halted,  and  went  not  in  at  once,  but  said  : 
"  Go,  fetch  me  wine,  and  let  my  soul  make  cheer, 
For  I  am  sick  with  visions  of  the  night." 

Within  the  tent  alone,  he  sat  and  mused : 
"  What  thing  is  this  hath  so  unstrung  my  heart 
A  foolish  dream  appalls  me  ?  what  dark  spell  ? 
Is  it  an  omen  that  the  end  draws  nigh  ? 
Such  things  foretell  the  doom  of  fateful  men  — 
Stars,  comets,  apparitions  hint  their  doom. 
The  night  before  my  grandsire  got  his  wound 
In  front  of  Memphis,  and  therewith  was  dead, 
He  dreamt  a  lying  Ethiop  he  had  slain 
Was  strangling  him  ;  and,  later,  my  own  sire 
Saw  death  in  a  red  writing  on  a  leaf. 
And  I,  too  "  —     Here  Bagoas  brought  the  wine 
And  set  it  by  him ;  but  he  pushed  it  back. 
"  Nay,  I  '11  not  drink  it,  take  away  the  cup ; 
And  this  day  let  none  vex  me  with  affairs, 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  233 

For  I  am  ill  and  troubled  in  my  thought. 
Go  —  no,  come  hither  !  these  are  my  commands  : 
Search  thou  the  camp  for  choicest  flesh  and  fruit, 
And  spread  to-night  a  feast  in  this  same  tent, 
And  hang  the  place  with  fragrant-smelling  boughs 
Or  such  wild  flowers  as  hide  in  the  ravine ; 
Then  bid  the  Hebrew  woman  that  she  come 
To  banquet  with  us.     As  thou  lovest  life, 
Bring  her !     What  matters,  when  the  strong  gods 

call, 
Whether  they  find  a  man  at  feast  or  prayer  ? " 

Bagoas  bowed  him  to  his  master's  foot 
With  hidden  cynic  smile,  and  went  his  way 
To  spoil  the  camp  of  such  poor  food  as  was, 
And  gather  fragrant  boughs  to  dress  the  tent, 
Sprigs  of  the  clove  and  sprays  of  lavender ; 
And  meeting  Marah  with  her  water  jar 
At  the  brookside,  delivered  his  lord's  word. 
Then  Judith  sent  him  answer  in  this  wise : 
"  O  what  am  I  that  should  gainsay  my  lord  ?  " 
And  Holofernes  found  the  answer  well. 
"  Were  this  not  so,"  he  mused,  "  would  not  my  name 
Be  as  a  jest  and  gibe  'mong  womankind  ? 
Maidens  would  laugh  behind  their  unloosed  hair." 

"  O  Marah,  see !  my  lord  keeps  not  his  word. 
He  is  as  those  false  jewellers  who  change 
Some  rich  stone  for  a  poorer,  when  none  looks. 


234  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Three  days  he  promised,  and  not  two  are  gone ! '' 
Thus  Judith  said,  and  smiled,  but  in  her  heart : 
"  O  save  me,  Lord,  from  this  dark  cruel  prince, 
And  from  mine  own  self  save  me ;  for  this  man, 
A  worshipper  of  fire  and  senseless  stone, 
Slayer  of  babes  upon  the  mother's  breast, 
He,  even  he,  hath  by  some  conjurer's  trick, 
Or  by  his  heathen  beauty,  in  me  stirred 
Such  pity  as  stays  anger's  lifted  hand. 
O  let  not  my  hand  falter,  in  Thy  name ! " 
And  thrice  that  day,  by  hazard  left  alone, 
Judith  bowed  down,  upon  the  broidered  mats 
Bowed    down   in   shame   and   wretchedness,    and 

prayed : 
"  Since    Thou    hast    sent    the    burden,    send    the 

strength  ! 

O  Thou  who  lovest  Israel,  give  me  strength 
And  cunning  such  as  never  woman  had, 
That  my  deceit  may  be  his  stripe  and  scar, 
My  kiss  his  swift  destruction.     This  for  thee, 
My  city,  Bethulia,  this  for  thee  !  " 

Now  the  one  star  that  ruled  the  night-time  then, 
Against  the  deep  blue-blackness  of  the  sky 
Took  shape,  and  shone  ;  and  Judith  at  the  door 
Of  the  pavilion  waited  for  Bagoas ; 
She  stood  there  lovelier  than  the  night's  one  star. 
But  Marah,  looking  on  her,  could  have  wept, 
For  Marah's  soul  was  troubled,  knowing  all 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  235 

That  had  been  hidden  from  her  till  this  hour. 
The  deadly  embassy  that  brought  them  there, 
And  the  dark  moment's  peril,  now  she  knew. 
But  Judith  smiled,  and  whispered,  "  It  is  well ;  " 
And  later,  paling,  whispered,  "  Fail  me  not !  " 

Then  came  Bagoas,  and  led  her  to  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes,  and  she  entered  in 
And  knelt  before  him  in  the  cressets'  light 
Demurely  like  a  slave-girl  at  the  feet 
Of  her  new  master,  whom  she  fain  would  please, 
He  having  paid  a  helmetful  of  gold 
That  day  for  her  upon  the  market-place, 
And  would  have  paid  a  hundred  pieces  more. 
So  Judith  knelt ;  and  the  dark  prince  inclined 
Above  her  graciously,  and  bade  her  rise 
And  sit  with  him  on  the  spread  leopard  skin. 
Yet  she  would  not,  but  rose,  and  let  her  scarf 
Drift  to  her  feet,  and  stood  withdrawn  a  space, 
Bright  in  her  jewels  ;  and  so  stood,  and  seemed 
Like  some  rich  idol  that  a  conqueror, 
Sacking  a  town,  finds  in  a  marble  niche 
And  sets  among  the  pillage  in  his  tent. 

"  Nay,  as  thou  wilt,  O  fair  Samarian  !  " 
Thus  Holofernes,  "  thou  art  empress  here." 

"  Not  queen,  not  empress  would  I  be,  O  prince," 
Judith  gave  answer,  "  only  thy  handmaid, 


236  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  one  not  well  content  to  share  her  charge." 
Then  Judith  came  to  his  couch  side,  and  said  : 
"  This  night,  O  prince,  no  other  slave  than  I 
Shall  wait  on  thee  with  meat  and  fruit  and  wine, 
And  bring  the  scented  water  for  thy  hands, 
And  spread  the  silvered  napkin  on  thy  knee. 
So  subtle  am  I,  I  shall  know  thy  thought 
Before  thou  thinkest,  and  thy  spoken  word 
Ere  thou  canst  speak  it.     Let  Bagoas  go 
This  night  among  his  people,  save  he  fear 
To  lose  his   place  and  wage,  through  some   one 

else 
More  trained  and  skilful  showing  his  defect ! " 

Prince  Holofernes  smiled  upon  her  mirth, 
Finding  it  pleasant.     "  O  Bagoas,"  he  cried, 
"  Another  hath  usurped  thee.     Get  thee  gone, 
Son  of  the  midnight !     But  stray  not  from  camp, 
Lest  the  lean  tiger-whelps  should  break  their  fast, 
And  thou  forget  I  must  be  waked  at  dawn." 

So  when  Bagoas  had  gone  into  the  night, 
Judith  set  forth  the  viands  for  the  prince ; 
Upon  a  stand  at  the  low  couch's  side 
Laid  grapes  and  apricots,  and  poured  the  wine, 
And  while  he  ate  she  held  the  jewelled  cup, 
Nor  failed  to  fill  it  to  the  silver's  edge 
Each  time  he  drank ;  and  the  red  vintage  seemed 
More  rich  to  him  because  of  her  light  hands 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  237 

And  the  gold  bangle  that  slipped  down  her  wrist. 
Now,  in  the  compass  of  his  thirty  years 
In  no  one  day  had  he  so  drank  of  wine. 

The  opiate  breath  of  the  half-wilted  flowers 
And  the  gray  smoke  that  from  the  cressets  curled 
Made  the  air  dim  and  heavy  in  the  tent ; 
And  the  prince  drowsed,  and  through  the  curtained 

mist, 

As  in  his  last  night's  vision,  came  and  went 
The  tall  and  regal  figure :  now  he  saw, 
Outlined  against  the  light,  a  naked  arm 
Bound  near  the  shoulder  by  a  hoop  of  gold, 
And  now  a  sandal  flashed,  with  jewels  set. 
Through  half-shut  lids  he  watched  her  come  and 

go, 

This  Jewish  queen  that  was  somehow  his  slave  ; 
And  once  he  leaned  to  her,  and  felt  her  breath 
Upon  his  cheek  like  a  perfumed  air 
Blown  from  a  far-off  grove  of  cinnamon ; 
Then  at  the  touch  shrank  back,  but  knew  not  why, 
Moved  by  some  instinct  deeper  than  his  sense. 
At  last  all  things  lost  sequence  in  his  mind ; 
And  in  a  dream  he  saw  her  take  the  lute 
And  hold  it  to  her  bosom  while  she  sang  ; 
And  in  a  dream  he  listened  to  the  song  — 
A  folklore  legend  of  an  ancient  king, 
The  first  on  earth  that  ever  tasted  wine, 
Who  drank,  and  from  him  cast  the  grief  called  life 


238  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

As  't  were  a  faded  mantle.     Like  a  mist 
The  music  drifted  from  the  silvery  strings : 

"  The  small  green  grapes  in  heavy  clusters  grew, 
Feeding  on  mystic  moonlight  and  white  dew 
And  amber  sunshine,  the  long  summer  through  ; 

"  Till,  with  faint  tremor  in  her  veins,  the  Vine 
Felt  the  delicious  pulses  of  the  wine  ; 
And  the  grapes  ripened  in  the  year's  decline. 

"And   day  by   day   the  Virgins  watched  their 

charge ; 

And  when,  at  last,  beyond  the  horizon's  marge, 
The  harvest-moon  drooped  beautiful  and  large, 

"  The  subtle  spirit  in  the  grape  was  caught, 
And  to  the  slowly  dying  monarch  brought 
In  a  great  cup  fantastically  wrought. 

"  Of  this  he  drank  ;  then  forthwith  from  his  brain 
Went  the  weird  malady,  and  once  again 
He  walked  the  palace,  free  of  scar  or  pain  — 

"  But  strangely  changed,  for   somehow  he  had 

lost 

Body  and  voice  :  the  courtiers,  as  he  crossed 
The     royal     chambers,    whispered  —  The    King's 
ghost!" 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  239 

The  ceasing  of  the  music  broke  the  drowse, 
Half  broke  the  drowse,  of  the  dazed  prince,  who 

cried  : 

"  Give  me  the  drink  !  and  thou,  take  thou  the  cup  1 
Fair  Judith,  't  is  a  medicine  that  cures ; 
Grief  will  it  cure  and  every  ill,  save  love," 
And  as  he  spoke,  he  stooped  to  kiss  the  hand 
That  held  the  chalice  ;  but  the  cressets  swam 
In  front  of  him,  and  all  within  the  tent 
Grew  strange  and  blurred,  and  from  the  place  he  sat 
He  sank,  and  fell  upon  the  camel-skins, 
Supine,  inert,  bound  fast  in  bands  of  wine. 

And  Judith  looked  on  him,  and  pity  crept 
Into  her  bosom.     The  ignoble  sleep 
Robbed  not  his  pallid  brow  of  majesty 
Nor  from  the  curved  lip  took  away  the  scorn ; 
These  rested  still.     Like  some  Chaldean  god 
Thrown  from  its  fane,  he  lay  there  at  her  feet. 
O  broken  sword  of  proof !     O  prince  betrayed ! 
Her  he  had  trusted,  he  who  trusted  none. 
The  sharp  thought  pierced  her,  and  her  breast  was 

torn, 

And  half  she  longed  to  bid  her  purpose  die, 
To  stay,  to  weep,  to  kneel  down  at  his  side 
And  let  her  long  hair  trail  upon  his  face. 

Then  Judith  dared  not  look  upon  him  more, 
Lest  she  should  lose  her  reason  through  her  eyes ; 


240  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  with  her  palms  she  covered  up  her  eyes 

To  shut  him  out ;  but  from  that  subtler  sight 

Within,  she  could  not  shut  him,  and  so  stood. 

Then  suddenly  there  fell  upon  her  ear 

The  moan  of  children  gathered  in  the  streets, 

And  throngs  of  famished  women  swept  her  by, 

Wringing  their  wasted  hands,  and  all  the  woes 

Of  the  doomed  city  pleaded  at  her  heart. 

As  if  she  were  within  the  very  walls 

These   things  she   heard  and  saw.     With  hurried 

breath 

Judith  blew  out  the  lights,  all  lights  save  one, 
And  from  its  nail  the  heavy  falchion  took, 
And  with  both  hands  tight  clasped  upon  the  hilt 
Thrice  smote  the  Prince  of  Asshur  as  he  lay, 
Thrice  on  his  neck  she  smote  him  as  he  lay, 
And  from  the  brawny  shoulders  rolled  the  head 
Blinking  and  ghastly  in  the  cresset's  light. 

Outside  stood  Marah,  waiting,  as  was  planned, 
And  Judith  whispered  :  "  It  is  done.     Do  thou  ! " 
Then  Marah  turned,  and  went  into  the  tent, 
And  pulled  the  hangings  down  about  the  corse, 
And  in  her  mantle  wrapped  the  brazen  head, 
And  brought  it  with  her.     Somewhere  a  huge  gong 
With  sullen  throbs  proclaimed  the  midnight  hour 
As  the  two  women  passed  the  silent  guard ; 
With  measured  footstep  passed,  as  if  to  prayer. 
But  on  the  camp's  lone  edge  fear  gave  them  wing, 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  241 

And  glancing  not  behind,  they  fled  like  wraiths 
Through  the  hushed  night  into  the  solemn  woods, 
Where,  from  gnarled  roots  and  palsied  trees,  black 

shapes 

Rose  up,  and  seemed  to  follow  them ;  and  once 
Some  creature  startled  in  the  underbrush 
Made  cry,  and  froze  the  blood  about  their  hearts. 
Across  the  plain,  with  backward-streaming  hair 
And  death-white  face,  they  fled,  until  at  last 
They  reached  the  rocky  steep  upon  whose  crest 
The  gray  walls  loomed  through  vapor.     This  they 

clomb, 

Wild  with  the  pregnant  horrors  of  the  night, 
And  flung  themselves  against  the  city  gates. 

Hushed  as  the  grave  lay  all  the  Asshur  camp, 
Bound  in  that  sleep  which  seals  the  eyes  at  dawn 
With  double  seals,  when  from  the  outer  waste 
An  Arab  scout  rushed  on  the  morning  watch 
With  a  strange  story  of  a  head  that  hung, 
Newly  impaled  there,  on  the  city  wall. 
He  had  crept  close  upon  it  through  the  fog, 
And  seen  it  plainly,  set  on  a  long  lance 
Over  the  gate  —  a  face  with  snake-like  curls, 
That  seemed  a  countenance  that  he  had  known 
Somewhere,  sometime,  and  now  he  knew  it  not, 
To  give  it  name  ;  but  him  it  straightway  knew, 
And  turned,  and  stared  with  dumb  recognizance 
Till  it  was  not  in  mortal  man  to  stay 


242 

Confronting  those  dead  orbs  that  mimicked  life. 
On  this  he  fled,  and  he  could  swear  the  thing, 
Disjoined  by  magic  from  the  lance's  point, 
Came  rolling  through  the  stubble  at  his  heel. 
Thus  ran  the  Arab's  tale ;  and  some  that  heard 
Laughed   at   the  man,  and   muttered :     "  O   thou 

fool ! " 

Others  were  troubled,  and  withdrew  apart 
Upon  a  knoll  that  overlooked  the  town, 
Which  now  loomed  dimly  out  of  the  thick  haze. 

Bagoas  passing,  caught  the  Arab's  words, 
Halted  a  moment,  and  then  hurried  on, 
Alert  to  bear  these  tidings  to  his  lord, 
Whom  he  was  bid  to  waken  at  that  hour ; 
Last  night  his  lord  so  bade  him.     At  the  tent, 
Which  stood  alone  in  a  small  plot  of  ground, 
Bagoas  paused,  and  called :  "  My  lord,  awake ! 
I  come  to  wake  thee  as  thou  badest  me." 
But  only  silence  answered ;  and  again 
He  called  :  "  My  lord,  sleep  not !  the  dawn  is  here, 
And  stranger  matter ! "     Still  no  answer  came. 
Then  black  Bagoas,  smiling  in  his  beard 
To  think  in  what  soft  chains  his  master  lay, 
Love's  captive,  drew  the  leather  screen  aside 
And  marvelled,  finding  no  one  in  the  tent 
Save  Holofernes  buried  at  full  length 
In  the  torn  canopy.     Bagoas  stooped, 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  243 

And  softly  lifting  up  the  damask  cloth 
Beheld  the  Prince  of  Asshur  lying  dead. 

As  in  some  breathless  wilderness  at  night 
A  leopard,  pinioned  by  a  falling  tree 
That  takes  him  unaware  curled  up  in  sleep, 
Shrieks,  and  the  ghostly  echo  in  her  cave 
Mimics  the  cry  in  every  awful  key 
And  sends  it  flying  through  her  solitudes  : 
So  shrieked  Bagoas,  so  his  cry  was  caught 
And  voiced  from  camp  to  camp,  from  peak  to  peak. 
Then  a  great  silence  fell  upon  the  camps, 
And  all  the  people  stood  like  blocks  of  stone 
In  a  deserted  quarry ;  then  a  voice 
Blown  through  a  trumpet  clamored  :  He  is  dead ! 
The  Prince  is  dead  !     The  Hebrew  witch  hath  slain 
Prince  Holof ernes  I    Fly,  Assyrians,  fly  I 

Upon  the  sounding  of  that  baleful  voice 
A  panic  seized  the  silent  multitude. 
In  white  dismay  from  their  strong  mountain-hold 
They  broke,  and  fled.     As  when  the  high  snows 

melt, 

And  down  the  steep  hill-flanks  in  torrents  flow, 
Not  in  one  flood,  but  in  a  hundred  streams : 
So  to  the  four  winds  spread  the  Asshur  hosts, 
Leaving  their  camels  tethered  at  the  stake, 
Their  brave  tents   standing,  and   their   scattered 

arms. 


244  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

As  the  pent  whirlwind,  breaking  from  its  leash, 

Seizes  upon  the  yellow  desert  sand 

And  hurls  it  in  dark  masses,  cloud  on  cloud, 

So  from  the  gates  of  the  embattled  town 

Leapt  armed  men  upon  the  flying  foe, 

And  hemmed  them  in,  now  on  a  river's  marge, 

Now  on  the  brink  of  some  sheer  precipice, 

Now  in  the  fens,  and  pierced  them  with  their  spears. 

Six  days,  six  nights,  at  point  of  those  red  spears 

The  cohorts  fled ;  then  such  as  knew  not  death 

Found  safety  in  Damascus,  or  beyond 

Sought  refuge,  harried  only  by  their  fears. 

Thus  through  God's  grace,  that  nerved  a  gentle 

hand 

Not  shaped  to  wield  the  deadly  blade  of  war, 
The  tombs  and  temples  of  Judea  were  saved. 
And  love  and  honor  waited  from  that  hour 
Upon  the  steps  of  Judith.     And  the  years 
Came  to  her  lightly,  dwelling  in  her  house 
In  her  own  city ;  lightly  came  the  years, 
Touching  the  raven  tresses  with  their  snow. 
Many  desired  her,  but  she  put  them  by 
With  sweet  denial :  where  Manasseh  slept 
In  his  strait  sepulchre,  there  slept  her  heart. 
And  there  beside  him,  in  the  barley-field 
Nigh  unto  Dothaim,  they  buried  her. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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